Crush

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Nature is funny. She gives tiny iron fillings to pigeons,

So that they can navigate, by knowing in their beaks

Which way is magnetic north, those two annoying poles,

North and south, feminine and masculine, how to find

Their way home again. I rub my nose, hoping my fingers

Will turn red with rust, but they never do. I turn right

 

And left, hoping that one way will feel more right

Or left than the others, but somehow, all I feel is

Dizzied. I suddenly realize that, before this moment,

I have never truly turned south before. My tongue

Speaks northern languages: French, the language

Of love, Japanese, the language of sacrificing yourself

 

In battle, and English, the language this woman speaks

With no accent until she is tired or perhaps has had

One pink drink too many. Her eyes are dark, polished

Oak and her grin like the full moon on a dark night.

I must focus on my work. The moon pulls at the tides,

Distracting them from reaching their usual shores.

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