Poetry Journal [3]

Nausea
Meah Enya Brooks

I read Nausea by Sartre; I thought it would impress
you. I was wearing those brown shoes I always
wear and that brown coat. And my brown skin tingled
when I saw you from your distance like my blood

was being sucked by a thousand mosquitos all over
my body. Perhaps that’s why I felt so faint. Shyness
flooded in as I suspected it would but my bold dress
waved at you in the wind, upstaging me, unfazed

by how perfect you looked wrapped in the air; it singled
you out, made you more lovely than I thought you could
be, framed in an oval of incandescence. I fell over
my words but we picked them up and we undressed

our thoughts and we felt entitled to our togetherness,
so our togetherness didn’t end at the end of the night.
I didn’t watch you leave, I didn’t watch the wind sweep
you away. You stayed another day, then another,

then another and dozens more, until you became like
the fingers on my hands and the hands on my arms,
not part of the furniture but part of me, the
yes
to disregard every
no I’d ever had, the final right

When everyone before was wrong. And we’d sleep
on the pillows of our hair and you were the lover
the universe summoned, the one who broke the strike,
the one with all the earthly gifts and all the charms,

the one I’d always known
even when
your face was still a question mark
in my mind.

Sadly not based on personal experience!
I just wanted to try writing a love poem.

Happy Valentine’s Day!