SHE

She is mostly bone-
spare, clean and long.
Like a child's crayoned picture
she is outlined in black.
The hair blossoms from her head
like sprung coils.  It forms
a cubic foot of ocean billowing
and foaming around her face.
She follows me.

She appears
and disappears, moving
photographically, flash
by flash.  Topaz sparks
glitter from her fingers.
Though I look quickly
in store windows, I have never seen
her eyes.

If I walk through summer trees
she has passed there first.
In the dark harbor
it is she who walks by the water,
her hair crisp with frost.
When I wake to stillness
I pause and listen.

She knows my name
and the names of everyone
I have ever loved.

			Lucille Murphy