On The Verge Poem by Ivona Sophia

every time she looks at the ocean
her eyes become languorous, her fingers on the
corroded window frame scratching scabs of paint.
heavy shutters pushed wide open
with passion and anger she hasn’t felt
since the day marked by a few simple words,
not enough for a sentence, one dimensional
like a letter written inadvertently. black on white.
like a dark splotch on her sight. delusional since then,
with an aversion for voices hot from spices and wine,
heavy nights, grains of sand between her toes,
fresh flowers and fish,
under the sky sliced by clotheslines,
on streets so narrow you can hear
the houses across the street sighing heavily
from the heat, in a room freshly bleached
for tourists, she’s unfolding
blue sheets, smoothing out creases
with blind, imperturbable fingers.