He discovers her daily, on the streets, the television, at the pool,
in bars, airports, laundromats and supermarkets.
Sometimes she is brunette, other times blonde, recurrently Asian,
Latina or African heritage. Once, she was a blind, deaf mute.
Always lively and aloof with an irreverent smile and hips that swing
to the devil's groove. He imagines their life together:
days sparked with high adventure, rapturous nights of fellowship
and fucking, vacations on the Coast of Mexico. It would not be work.
She would prepare breakfast for him and tend to her garden on weekends.
She would have her own money, an inheritance from a birth father
possessed of the grace to pass away before their engagement.
There would be few arguments between them,
and she would respect the artist, careful not to distract him
with trivial matters such as house cleaning or automotive repair.
He would call her, Mi Dama Amante, and dedicate his works to her.
She would be an ideal companion.
But for her fixation with ceramic lawn gnomes, she would be impeccable.
The meddling midget devils, he cannot stand them
posted like sentinels about the lawn, scrutinizing every movement.
Even her younger sister agrees, the gnomes are a peculiar fetish.
The sister lives in West Hollywood, teaches yoga and dances professionally.
She laughs at his jokes. You should see the body on that girl!
**First published in Bluing the Blade, and winner of the "Bragi Poetry Award" at Tempered Runes Press.
