Woman Watching

By Molly Bendall

What is pleasing to her
is the allure of possibilities.

And if she could say
“the river is chartreuse” or “it’s the yellow
of rhododendron”

or “the sky’s edges dip themselves in green,” even if
she wants to

because just saying it is luscious.

“My dog has her own secret desires,” she whispers vividly
to the water and breathes
over its glossy surface.

She’s not unattached
or detached, really, but preoccupied with her own inclinations,

with the fortunes she knew once, or might have known.

And they become her
even though they’re in the past.
How can she turn from them to where there’s no
gravity, no support?

And the world shifts
under the red water.
She’s unsteady and she hovers
before decision,
but she knows
there in the folds of light

and risk, it will be hers then.