Wine Glass

Remember when this private young man
in the bougainvillea patio called me “pensive”?

I always knew I was pensive: even before I
understood the word. His observations

were new to me, his siren song
engulfed me, a cyclone, a torrent.

He would know me well, too well. I mean:
since he could sense sadness without my story.

When this man said pensive, I ruffled,
losing myself in his lyrics

drowning in that storm.
I finally grasp why

his remark draped me in a shroud
of desire, hiding me from his intentions

and now to mention it, soaking you
(my companion across the table, as it happens)

with this knowledge. I admire, adore
a Yank: a sense of release—
 

my girlhood has left me bereft
pensiveness has flown—

I muse about the future
of us—him, and me; and what
 

comes of his keen observation.
Amazement holds me
 

like the wind’s glacial grip on the bougainvillea—
merciless, tight, I relish this hold. (continued)

And by this glass of Merlot (Wine Glass, 2)
melancholy tempts me no more.