Ms. Alligator by Hunter Boone

She had the emotional presence of a toothpick, the personality of a comatose eel…

A woman I desired
read Antigone
which she encouraged me to do, so I
did. When I came upon “Teiresias” I said,
“I can’t spell that.” She said,
“Look it up.” Somewhere.

She became that woman
you wouldn’t expect –
out of proportion
to everything else.

When she moved
her body slid –
of a piece – which caused a problem.
The ground upon which she walked
swayed and swelled
people running,
different directions
up and down the boulevard
while the other women – kinder,
nobler, gentler
with foreign accents
showed themselves open,
not nearly as dubious –
yet this one stuck
hardened to her molten core –
sad – yet oh so beautiful
in a glittering sort of way

beckoning, surreal, blue
tourmaline eyes
that rolled back into her head
as she spoke
and inhuman things –
enticements thick with ice,
this sorry sophist and enigmatic soul
you couldn’t poke through
though I tried many times.

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