right hand pointing

You walk by a woman stooping in her front yard

and don’t see her.

A mother, generic, she is pulling up weeds

while speaking patiently to a child.

 

If you’d seen this woman last night, you’d know:

she was in bloom, her hips had it all,

her legs were earthquakes on the dance floor.

If you were seeing her now

you’d know: her powerful arms

lift out loads of yellow sourgrass,

her voice spins a shield around the child.

 

You round the corner, slender hip swaying,

and don’t see

how the woman rises to her feet,

kicks lavender buds from her sandals,

watches you disappear.