The Spanish English student

Prose - The poem without the line breaks

What if I wrote one line of words bending and looping across the page, until the line finally 

crossed a ‘t’?

Her eyes were darting across the room and then my eyes just happened to cross the line of her looking – and perhaps it was no more than that.

My eyes have become old and sky blue and hers were young dark pools of liquid earth. A million years have shaped both our lives and our words, neurons leaping over synaptic clefts in less than the blink of an eye. I only happened to glance over as she happened to glance across within the same moment of time and at a point in space - and then in a blink we also both looked so very quickly away. The crossing of eyesight lines had merely sparked some primordial recognition.

And then we caught each other’s eyes again. She smiled. I suppose that I must have smiled, too. But I could only see her face. Who knows just what she saw in mine?

It all happened in finitude. In time – in space - on a Sunday afternoon in my dining room. I happened to be, in that very hour, forty years her elder, if a day. And still it was as if we played tag or maybe hide and seek with our eyes.

What magic was it calling out the sight lines of our gazes across ten or twelve feet of thin air? I must have spread my fingers and peeked through them once or twice before I finished counting up to one hundred. And later, when I said a few words over her shoulder, she caught the corner of my eye as she turned her head.

And then we all were playing Jenga at the dining room table with solid maple blocks, building a tower to toppling. And again, I watched her eyes as she pulled on a block and then she looked into mine when the block came free. I must have laughed when I realized that she was looking at me looking at her looking at me.

It was really nothing more than that. I was old enough to be her very distant uncle. She had been born across a wide ocean. And only for a single afternoon, with our eyes playfully glancing, would our worlds come within a million miles of colliding.

It was not as if we were weaving the fabric of the universe, one warp and one weft – and then a million threads of some color. Let’s say that it was rose, or mauve or maybe a dusky pink. I recall that that was just about the color of the sweatshirt she was wearing.

And I remember a phone stuck into one back pocket of her jeans - but now that I think of it, it might have been another young woman. There were a dozen or so of us, together, sharing food. And talking back and forth in various accents of English. There was a cake with a little cardamom and bright colored sugar sprinkles. And then she and I just happened onto a million year old little game, one played with only our eyes.

And then the game was over, the sun lowering in the sky, warm for November. And then she walked away forever. She waved one hand out of courtesy. And perhaps for some of the feelings I had yet to recall, I must have raised my hand too.

And then with a look, one last look forever, she looked into my eyes. And then we both disappeared into each other’s memories. I have not quite forgotten the look of her eyes just yet. But I will.

Poem - Line breaks as punctuation

What if I wrote one line of words

bending and looping across the page,

until the line finally crossed a ‘t’?

Her eyes were darting across the room

and then my eyes just happened to cross the sight line of her looking –

and perhaps it was no more than that.

My eyes have become old and sky blue

and hers were young dark pools of liquid earth.

A million years have shaped both our lives

and our words,

neurons leaping over synaptic clefts

in less than the blink of an eye.

I only happened to glance over

as she happened to glance across

within the same moment of time

and at a point in space -

and then in a blink we also both looked

so very quickly away.

The crossing of eyesight lines

merely had sparked some primordial recognition.

And then we caught each other’s eyes again.

She smiled.

I suppose that I must have smiled, too.

But I could only see her face.

Who knows just what she saw in mine?

It all happened in finitude.

In time –

in space -

on a Sunday afternoon

in my dining room.

I happened to be, in that very hour,

forty years her elder,

if a day.

And still it was as if we played tag

or maybe hide and seek with our eyes.

What magic was it calling out the lines of our gazes

across ten or twelve feet of thin air?

I must have spread my fingers and peeked through them once or twice

before I finished counting up to one hundred.

And later, when I said a few words over her shoulder

and she caught the corner of my eye as she turned her head.

And then we all were playing Jenga

at the dining room table

with solid maple blocks,

building a tower to toppling.

And again, I watched her eyes as

she pulled on a block

and then she looked into mine when the block came free.

I must have laughed

when I realized that she was looking at me

looking at her looking at me.

It was really nothing more than that.

I was old enough to be her very distant uncle.

She had been born across a wide ocean.

And only for a single afternoon

with our eyes playfully glancing would

our worlds come within a million miles

of colliding.

It was not as if we were weaving the fabric of the universe,

one warp and one weft –

and then a million threads of some color.

Let’s say that it was rose, or mauve

or maybe a dusky pink.

I recall that that was just about the color of the sweatshirt she was wearing.

And I remember a phone stuck into one back pocket of her jeans -

but now that I think of it, it might have been another young woman.

There were a dozen or so of us, together, sharing food.

And talking back and forth in various accents of English.

There was a cake with a little cardamom

and bright colored sugar sprinkles.

And then she and I just happened onto a million year old little game,

one played with only our eyes.

And then the game was over,

the sun lowering in the sky,

warm for November.

And then she walked away forever.

She waved one hand out of courtesy.

And perhaps for some of the feelings I had yet to recall,

I must have raised my hand too.

And then with a look, one last look forever,

she looked into my eyes.

And then we both disappeared into each other’s memories.

I have not quite forgotten the look of her eyes just yet.

But I will.