Dante only saw Beatrice in passing a few times.
I imagine it was like trying to catch
a feather floating down from the sky.
You always want more my mother would say.
For birthdays she would buy me a dress,
though that wasn’t enough – I wanted tights.
I can’t lie, it’s still true –
maybe satisfaction is only for the dead.
Wanting you is like wanting the tights.
My mother would say no and I’d pout,
not because I really wanted the tights –
it’s the achievement in acquiring what one can’t have.
Wanting you is a morning glory that blooms
from cracked cement – always a possibility.
The fourteen year old girl within me fights,
she won’t sit still, so I slap her pink cheeks,
tell her to behave, to go pop gum and write
in her diaries I shredded long ago.
The ones that gushed about the green eyed
boy-next-door, wanting him the way one
wants to brush their finger against a star.
Would Dante have composed page after page
if he had his beloved Beatrice at his side?
Perhaps I would not have been satisfied
with the boy-next-door or now even with you.
After all, when I finally did get the tights
there was always a shiny pair of shoes.
Distance was published in Driftwood.