Your eyes. I used to believe they created me.
One look from you, and I became chalice,
lotus, lioness, crane. Woman. Without your gaze,
I was unformed clay. Your absence, my absence.
It was like some strange twist on what Ptolemy said—
he believed that rays emanate from the eyes,
rays that traverse the air and find the object, allowing
it to be seen. If a woman dances alone in a room,
and you do not see her, is she really dancing?
Does she exist at all?
But Ptolemy was wrong, love, and so was I.
And this is not really the story of photoreceptors
and environmental stimuli. It’s the story
of how we long to be seen—it begins with such
innocence, a longing to please. It’s the story
of how eventually a woman might find herself
dancing for the leaping, whirling pleasure of dancing.
Powerful use of words, especially the last sentence.
Very nice to visit with you at the reading at the gallery. Thanks for sharing yourself with Grand Junction.
Thank you! I had such a wonderful time last night. Thank you for coming. Many hugs to you
I too like how you end it, last line for sure, but last stanza especially.
thanks … I actually added another line … I wonder if you think it adds or not …
But Ptolemy was wrong, love, and so was I.
And this is not really the story of photoreceptors
and environmental stimuli. It’s the story
of how we long to be seen—how it grows out of
innocence, a longing to please. It’s the story
of how eventually a woman might find herself
dancing and know herself as twirl, as leap,
a story with infinite beginnings.