Maybe my arms lifted as a woman lowers a dress over my head.
This is not what I want to tell you.
Looking at red flowers on her mother's dress as she sat on her
lap on a train is Woolf's first memory.
Then the sound of waves behind a yellow shade, of being alive
Maybe her mind, as I read, lowering over my mind.
Maybe looking down, as I sit on the floor, at the book inside the
diamond of my legs.
Even briefly, to love with someone else's mind.
Moving my lips as I read the waves breaking, one, two, one,
two, and sending a splash of water over the beach.
What I want to tell you is ecstasy.
Copyright � 2013 by Allison Benis White. Used with permission of the author.