She’s tough like a railroad tie; you can step along her spine

if you are crazy

But she won’t sigh into the ground

when you do.   In other ways, she’s a rainstorm, cranky

As she pelts down into the pliable grass.  She will mock you with a light touch, 

Not to be a bitch but to weld— between your lame comment

And what could’ve been a banal silence—

An opportunity for a laugh.  Sometimes after a downpour

The ground takes some time

Accepting the water and rivulets pour into the streets, in a mood.

You can find her some nights in her apartment, silent for hours,

Broken only by her gentle observance of what the cats are up to.

She laughs the way some laugh only in victory—

Delighted by every right turn of phrase or an accurate

Thrown punch into some bullshit

Or other.  She has purple hair, Botticelli looks, and a seriousness

Under her mirth anyone can discover, over a bowl of guacamole and tortillas.

She believes in God the way some people browse at the bookstore,

Reading the titles, leafing through some pages,

Buying nothing but a well bound journal, and going about their day.

But she notices the everyday miraculous,

And won’t give scientific inquiry the right to tell her, Don’t be moved

By what you don’t understand.   She’s Amelia, and if you don’t know her,

You wish you did.


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