She is Liquid

She is Liquid

A tricked-out tart whistles from the stacks.
Mickey Spillane scowls from a back cover.
The green-shaded lamps flicker and hum.
At the front window, a tall blond woman
stands, her hair the color of ripe wheat.
It shimmers in the sun streaming through the
south-facing window. She fidgets, tapping
her feet. She is a standing slipstream.
I draft to her. She turns to leave, her stride
long and lean, she carries me along. At the
door, she stops and turns. I stumble into
her. I step back, mumble an apology.
She fixes me with her eyes.

I am a bug.
Fixed on a pin.
Mounted on a board.
Placed in a drawer.
Put in a cabinet in the sub-sub basement of
The national History Museum.

The blood rushes to my face.
I am demolished - destroyed.
She is liquid - lanquid.

Hal Freeman