Tuesday

Tuesday

I've been told that my mouth is like the small
white flowers that grow on cut grass, little
weeds in pale men's fields of and proud lawns.

He has said that my eyes were like the stones
in the beaches that washed and smoothed,
the glass dulled and polished, near fish bones.

I've been given his love letters, large words,
thick letters, thick affection, his love like
stabbing, his love like the sharpest swords.

I tell him I will think about it later, perhaps
when I am an older woman with more
of the world in my mind, its mishaps.

This whole thing is a mishap, a minor flaw,
to think this man would call me beautiful.
To think this man would watch in awe.

I'm not that pretty.