More Elegant Things


The moment just before she realizes I am looking at her.

Seductive wood fires on a cold night.

My father’s stern voice calling us home.

A dancer’s point turn, perfectly executed each time.

My mother’s gentle tug, a tuck behind the ear, and folded hands
cradling her rosary.

Or perhaps a poet’s breath moments after inspiration.



Eva Guillot
9-16-2008