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her hair is wheat
she moves like a startled fox
she won’t look a man in the eye
but her breath is salt air

when she smiles
she hides her teeth
as if they were holy obelisks
so just her dimples
and nose indicate her happiness

if she is ever on your step
you hear a rustle
her dress shuffling
as she knocks
and moves her legs
uncomfortable in the silence
of a dimly lit porch

you can give some love
if you try
and she’ll stay
at least for a week
curled up on your pillows
like an old friend

sometimes she pushes the hair
from her face behind her ears
things she never pierced
and it falls back onto her lips
that nose that speaks more
than she is able to

when she leaves
you’ll be tempted to throw out
all the trinkets she left
on the nightstand
in the bathroom
well you won’t

she won’t come back
but it’s a good hurt

you like the way
it makes you look at the trees
smelling the air
for a trace of salt
for the sound of her dress rustling