“You were eighteen?”

“Why do you look so sombre

in that photograph?” I ask her.

“You were eighteen?”

“Younger.”

“Maybe seventeen?”

 

But I am off in my own

thoughts on her

before we met:

such pale, smooth, skin;

and the line of her prim,

pretty mouth, as if ready

for some grim,

ancestral, feminine trap

that waits for girls.

 

But not all tight and trim.

Her dark hair

caresses her face

with free, rococo curls.

 

And something in her look

says: please break me

out of this frame

and take me home.

 

(Julian O’Dea)

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