A poem by Julia R. DeStefano
“I love it when you get your naughty eyes,”
he tells me -
though his are far naughtier.
I like to swim the depths of those oceans,
wondering how he got them.
Because there’s always a story.
A first time.
I remember playing love witch.
Vibrating in the chants of love me, love me
as girls do in their Stevie twirl.
The words dancing upon my lips
before I could speak.
Because even then, I knew what I needed.
I’d look for my bedroom eyes
in the mirror’s gaze.
Marilyn as my inspiration.
A little cat-eye here,
a heavy lid there.
More hungry than ready
but unable to activate.
I was unaware of the Word Witch
waiting to emerge
with the song in her heart
and verse dripping from her fingertips.
How she’d come when I ceased trying so hard
in all her copper fluid fire glory.
This supernatural vixen
of my girlish fantasies turned real.
And she was me!
I did not know this woman I would be.
With words enough to make you fly,
my naughty eyes.
© Julia R. DeStefano