She wears a ribbon in her hair,
red silk tying back
black waves of curls.
She folds her hands
behind her back, fingers
locking, twisting, crossing,
like she’s making a wish
or telling a lie;
“Scout’s honor,” she says,
but never finishes.
What promise might she make
if I could read between
the lines in her palms?
She searches a room
with rust-colored eyes.
I count down the
sluggish seconds, until
they come
to rest
on me.
She wears a black,
pleated skirt, shoes
with a slight raised heel,
a gentle
click-clack
on the wood floor.
She wears a ribbon
in her hair,
knowing
it’ll catch my eye.
To how many corners
can I flit my eye
before they are lured
inevitably,
ardently,
to hers.
My fingers flex,
lining the pad of my thumb
against the gold thread
to track her hairline.
She takes my hand,
asks to tell me a secret.
I wonder:
What will she whisper
in
my ear?
Will she ever
uncurl
these two fingers?
Will she show me what she hides?
She wears a ribbon
curled at the edges;
I wish I were silk,
resting upon her head,
a crown
fit for the queen she is.
She wears a ribbon
in her hair.
Red, fluttering, gleaming,
a ribbon in her hair.
Photo by Douglas Hawkins on Unsplash
Rachel Sandell 