Levitation

Observe.
This is how women walk away.

In broken heels
and secondhand jackets,
cigarette smoke in their hair
and no kiss goodbye.

Do not mock.
It is what it should be.

A girl in a car,
hanging a u-turn
on a glistening, empty street.

Her body is a road to be traveled.
A shipwreck to be plundered.
She does not know how she got here,
and she does not care.

And it does not matter.
This is how women smile.

Knowing, secretive,
though her cheeks are sore.
Though the wind
is blowing right through her clothes.

Though there is no good music
on the radio, and no food
in the refrigerator.

This is just an impression.
An idea of nirvana.
A slice of real, live ecstasy.

But do not give it a name.
Just show it, wear it like
designer jeans.
Tight against the skin.

She is ivory, she is easy,
and it is not love.
It is something better,
fermenting at the
backs of her knees.

Flooring her.
Bleeding from her fingerprints.

It is a devastation,
seven ways from Sunday,
but that is how she likes it.
It cannot hurt.
It cannot strike bone.

She's been looking too long
for something to save her,
turning over stones,
emptying her pockets.

And all she really needed
was a quiet space in which to
cast down her roots
and lay siege to her doubts.

Observe.
This is how women are reborn.

With simplicity,
with awareness running deep
as iron in the earth.
With dry lips
and liquid limbs.

With tangling her body up
and losing track of time,
her clothes,
her mind.

But never her heart.
This is what is important.
In the end, it is not about love.
It is about satisfaction.
She cannot have both,
so she chooses the latter.

Do not judge.

She is resting easier
than she has in years.