a poem by A.R. Martin

She’s got hair that reaches the ceiling and legs

that pierce through the ground.

She’s got the waist and hips I wish I had and

big flat feet that still look good in lint-covered slippers.

Her fingers are slim, nails straight, her elbows so 

pointy and black that you just want to hold on

to the them, gripping them, as close to her as

you can get because she has this way of smiling 

without moving her lips and shining her teeth,

a way of looking at you that makes you feel

like you’ve been holding on all along, 

holding onto each other,

that when she walks past and says “Hi” 

I say “Hi” back and wish I could be just like her, if only 

there could be two of us and no one else.

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