THE FLAME

So, you're in a Greek diner.
Let's call it The Flame, its
letters enscripted in neon
on the glass, and she's across 
the booth drinking coffee and
reading your poems. Her hair is
raven and she is, in a way, 
beautiful, someone who has
braved the depths of something
and returned arrogant, smart,
there's some faint smudge on her
forehead, the imprint of the moon,
as if she is touched by some 
kind of love as she reads. 
She reads each poem as if,
for a moment, she is stricken
by them, she writes a question
beside a line, jots a few 
words at the bottom, So?, 
A mood piece?  and Oh.
She looks at you for the first
time and asks you what you 
want. She flips her raven hair 
over her shoulder. You cannot 
say what comes to mind, you
want her to love your poems, or 
you, the way you just now love
her, or think you do. What do 
you want? she asks, and just 
now you know nothing, nothing
that you can say, you don't
really know anything but 
there are words tumbling
everywhere, she tells you 
that you must change your life, 
asks you if you're willing 
to change your relationship
to language, to form? You want
to say something smart but 
your mouth swells with twisting 
flowers. You are floating in 
indigo. The typed letters
shimmer on the page with 
a trace of something you 
can't quite decipher -- you're 
smitten. You take the pages 
and leave the booth.  By 
the time you reach the door
you think she's watching but 
all you see is the window, 
indigo on the glass, the 
neon script of The Flame
and these flowers twisting 
in your throat, petals spilling 
from your lips, lavender and 
mustard, ivory and lipstick, 
the flush of becoming 
someone you'll never know, 
again.