Suzanne O'Connell | Poet

That Kind Of Girl






She was the kind of girl who took her own pulse all the time,

three digits on her artery, fingering the frets on her neck like a violin.

When others were around, she pretended

she was brushing aside a strand of hair.


She was the kind of girl who couldn’t say the words

tit-mouse or ball-cock or matriculate.

She couldn’t say breasts either, but said blossoms.


She was the kind of girl who was buttoned all the way up.

She only ate fish that swam wild, were never

caught in nets. She underlined with a ruler.


Yet at midnight, she removed her clothes and climbed the ladder

to the rooftop, where she sat eating saltines.

Then she danced like she was cardboard coming unglued,

and she sang Serbian folk ballads to the stars.


You’ve heard the old saying about the still pond

that is deep and full of vitamins?

Or the one about the bushel basket that hides rumors and kisses?


Well, she was that kind of girl.





Lummox, Summer, 2015








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