The young woman on the old bicycle
at dawn,
her
spine a testament to posture and righteousness,
pedals
across the brick streets of a French village.
A
navy-blue cap rides a wave of short black hair;
a
white blouse hangs on shoulder blades fit for a mannequin.
The
merchants are still dreaming of wine and cheese,
and
no one stirs from the romance of a sagging mattress
to
see her tight red sweater or black pants
paint
wide brushstrokes across storefronts.
In
the basket in front of rusty handlebars
is
a newspaper, fresh bread, and a bottle of wine.
She
is so innocent that she could be a fairy
who
was born yesterday deep in the forest over the hill.
She
meets her young man in a field of sunshine,
and
after they drink the Bordeaux, they kiss,
but
her eyes open and follow a flock of birds
scared
into the air by a lurch of fur and claws.
In
that moment she knows she will never marry Claude,
for
her heart can only belong to the sky,
a
bosom so large that only its blue curve
can
contain the love of love and ardent desire.
~William Hammett
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