My Woman. Poem by Alistair Plint

my woman
curled up, close enough to know
her heart beat has timing;
arm crossing chest
fingers melt into hands held tight
legs knotted into knees
toes kissing
-lips to ear

an average woman, at first sight
long cascading, unvarnished hair
not overly made up
yet enough skin toned lip-stick
to let you know
she respects herself;
nails in dark shades
of enamel, cared for.
Natural brown eyes
staring
lifes second begining
in the face

she whispers
"I love you" often
sometimes even dropping
from her lips
like an unexpected mistake

realisation hits my forehead
there's nothing average
about her
she:
mothers like Teresa
loves like Aphrodite
lives like Nigella
owns real woman values
as if she wrote the book
that modeled
modern-woman-living

I smile
she asks why?
I go silent
she giggles
I ask why?
she...

"you're funny"

- I kiss her, loving her back



-x-