Mary

Mary would strike you as foreign. Because that’s how all good stories begin. Olive skin, as if overlaid on ivory, that shone through. It would be almost a shame to tell the story, deviate. Because her shining through herself is the only part I noticed. White stone walls  of inconspicuous height, shining through creepers purple red white blossoms I followed her through, the public gardens listening. Not to her story. I never heard it, same as any, jewish grandparents, married, no sex, unfooled but kind. But listened, herself through words. She listened. That sprang up cities through skin. Unbroken. Skin light. That sank. Sink lights that depthed hands on the rose-leaves– musk of it I smelled trailing on the street today– touching their depth, drawn up to touch. Lady talking in the park. Probably not to me. To anyone. Letting her hands talk. Listening with hands words. And it was pure good fortune I was there when she said my name.