The Questions She Makes Me Ask
This is what women have always been for me:
an alluring mystery, a hidden fruit,
a secret not quite revealed, not quite concealed,
a metaphor that calls to me—O! Siren’s
song—and then withdraws within dark folds distant
as death’s far kingdom. See the red hair curled and
massing, the perfect arcing eyebrows, the hooded
eyes and flushing cheeks. Can she think what I am
thinking? Does she know? See the red lips peeping
above the black scarf, the fascinator. Does
she look at me as she recedes—inscrutable--
into desire’s black banks? And if I follow,
if I pursue, if I part her great dark cloak,
if I seek the obscure promise she withholds,
will I ever find the light again?
Cecil Morris retired after 37 years of teaching high school English in California, where he wrote numerous memos, lesson plans, and the occasional poem. He has had a few poems published, mostly in English teacher magazines (English Journal and California English) and small literary magazines (Poem and Hiram Review).
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