vancouver island-based author and artist

Your Woman

at any given moment
your woman is by the sea
she finds the change in colours
in the ground-down shells and stones
like you
her spectrum tinted gray and blue
for safety
with the occasional green
a reminder to be here now
and breathe
(cue breath)
your woman
is dead-set
on not dying
having lived too many decades
just surviving
east of the islands flipped upside-down
lost in snow-capped peaks
to never be found

your woman
is a 90s child
from a suggestive era of inaction
whose peacetime could never sedate
the restlessness
the war going on behind
closed doors & drawn venetian blinds
shadows cast on her innocent eyes
forever burned into her mind
your woman
is reckless
sometimes fearless
having looked back never to live through it
vicariously
it is 1986
and she finds no ignorance
in bliss

your woman
is never behind the wheel
she won’t slow down in playground zones
when her playground
is made of sharp rocks beneath a gorge
hopping the dry parts on wet land
driftwood and sun-faded boughs
she scans responsibly
from left to right
right to left
for potential hazards
a new driver
and a primitive beachcomber
your woman
is a land-locked mermaid
halfway to legally blind
blinking out the blurry spots
in her viewfinder
she looks out at the white for the horizon
while the darkroom in her mind discards slides

your woman is light on her feet
on the gray patches amid the greens
in an endless maze of roots and trees
entangled
at her thighs and knees with you
or else, she longs to be
a shoreline
between your sheets
thirsty, running warm and wet
and tamed by deepened breath
she is wilderness, embodied
ready for you to get lost in
hungry for a love that lends itself to possession
surrendering to your every need
she is a canvas and a garden
begging for your seed
your woman
she is yours to keep
if you venerate her
wholeheartedly

your woman
wolf and lioness
her face is framed in golden threads
smelling of sunshine
stardust and sweat
a younger woman
getting older
wiser
six years and an hour behind
but what does it matter
when you lose all sense of time
when you're with her?

on a sunday afternoon
your woman is by the sea
chasing the glow of an overcast sky
embedded in an overhang
high as mountains
and never felt so alive
she grows
when her world feels too small
mighty next to crashing waves
and tiny standing tall
her rosewood limbs heavy
and carefully etched
with hieroglyphics
telling legends long before her time
wide eyes
shining with fire crackle
and slow exhales
with the ocean tide

go ahead
say it darling
“this wild woman
she is mine”

© Mary dela Torre, 2017

poetryMary