The sky pours over a woman's blue shawl
that shades her eyes, milky as tired galaxies.
She walks, and I walk,
but you are vapor.
Here, there are too many good things.
Soap made of olive oil.
A man cutting meat.
A radio dicing out Tarkan in
over the oud across the aisle.
A cat in the crosspath, a rubber band on its back,
though no one knows why.
It's all good and no one has to apologize
or explain, the bright colors,
the white Turkish van cat in the textile shop.
No one, not even me,
not even to you or about you
Meg Smith is a poet and journalist living in Lowell, Mass. Her work has appeared previously in Poetry Bay, as well as The Cafe Review, Pulse, Erosha, The Long Islander, Vyu, Astropoetica, and others. An Oriental dancer, she is associate editor of Belly Dance New England and columnist for Jareeda magazine, and is a student of Middle Eastern history and culture. She welcomes visits at www.poet-in-motion.net.