Jessica Ramsey

could sense she was thrilled to hear I had, a year ago, written a poem of her,
to hear that I was sending it to Colombia, to hear of its being translated into Spanish

then again how do I know what of all I said she heard,
what exactly of what I said, of all I said, shy myself about connecting, about confessing, was responsible for how divinely she smiled

she did seem to accept that it was something given or something taken which cost her nothing,
taken without her knowing or without feeling any pain at all,
unlike a pint of blood, unlike a mosquito bite

what is your name was my first question, she gave it readily enough
tapped her shoulder again, I can add your name to it I told her, was it o.k.
sure, she said, over her shoulder, quickly

what is your last name, holding back but gave that as well
uncertain of her family name, how to spell it, wanting to be certain I spelled it correctly
spelled it aloud and she confirmed

a younger sibling in one arm and on one side, energetic as she usually is
as cheerful as the year’s most joyful seasons in her combined

in the nick of time you might say, able to add a dedication to that poem
able to, with this connection, polish it, finish it, put it together, pull it apart

give it official placement on the page, simultaneously place her like a tattoo
in blood within my heart, position her where and how she fits best

I fell in love with her that night I saw her in the dark, in her dark skin, in short jeans skirt
with a group of girls but she stood out and my heart leapt, too vigorously almost

with this woman my own age, whom I've been with, gone with for ages
with hardly anywhere else to go and she pops up, pops out in the night, too thrilling for words

thought I'd given myself away for certain - either she did not notice of pretended not to
that moment truly one of life's most gripping

in fact it was a month short of two years ago, October 21, 2007,
what day of the week, I'm unable to recall, I can and will confirm

it’s Sunday and across the street at the door of that store where we were a while ago
a dog waits to wag its tail and trot along beside two girls it loves, to whom it belongs

I connect to those I love with words I write, write into being a new family
by ink rather than by blood connected, best possible substitute for corpuscles

adrenalin is released in ink as well, from ink wells
how dark and lovely this girl is, when she is 19 though I'd be 59 or 29 I'd be 69

my wish, I wish I could take her out to dinner once before demise
before the surprise of death

knock upon her door to commence an evening out, before death knocks
to say, pack it up, knock it off, you're coming with me, you're being relieved

so much beauty in this world to move me, to be moved by before bye bye


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
8:54 p.m. 20.09.09