The women’s hands — long, slender fingers -
curl around pint glasses of coffee and tea.
Siona plays at concern.
“They have no wild animals,” tuts Farland.
“no crime: the prisoners leave jail
to go home for the weekend.
The worst I face walking across Iceland is
I could fall into a crevasse.”
The Arab women
dark eyes smouldering at some private joke
clear their table. Young Chinese athletes
eyes wide unguarded
watch Farland mimic the ducks on her frozen pond.
Her wings spread wide. Her eyes
the Colorado sky, ten thousand feet
eight in the morning.
At the People’s Park free box
Farland found a skirt, mosquito-net taffeta
something beneath that looked enough like silk.
She held it out, lamented.
“This has such a tiny waist.”
(It fit, almost, despite her pants.)
She moved to unsnap: I stopped her.
“You are not taking that skirt off.”
(Certainly the first time
the sentence has ever passed my lips.)
Homeless men asked for curtseys.
Seated now, she smooths it as we drink.
It is an unlikely purple,
four-year-old princess grape
Columbine blooming in fell-field storm
sky in the water as I drive home.

