Three Passages of Women

Wounded Woman
A wounded woman lays beside me,
my bed a station on a journey
through joy and despair
to seek something better.
She believes she is ruined,
but I adore her the way she is;
a blend of humane imperfection
and startling beauty.
She is depressed, as I am,
and I believe I understand
her melancholy in a way
I am aware of from seeing her,
but simply cannot explain in words.
She is in love with another
and this is okay.
It was enough for me
to lay beside her for awhile
and know, for a moment,
she was alright.

A Paragraph
 A very beautiful woman rests on her stomach on the floor next to her bed. She is copying passages from The Diary of Anais Nin. I do not know what volume it is, but she is writing very quickly in a state of rapturous lucidity. I stare at her from the couch, envious of her clearly focused joy. Her legs are crossed; they are mostly bare, toned, with a very natural tan. We are listening to electronic music that I understand, but do not recognize. The one thing I know is I will not go to bed with her tonight. This is probably the best choice for both of us, but I still want to. I want it enough to end a sentence in a preposition. She is going to bed and I am going to ride my bike home and write this down instead of only thinking about it, then letting it go. It seems significant considering the time and place and situation: well past two in the morning, in her bedroom, drinking and smoking and reading poetry to one another. She asks me if I want to smoke before I go. Marijuana. I tell her not tonight, not again. She sleeps with another man. I tell her good night and to sleep tight. When I get home, I am overcome with a moment of emptiness, utter loneliness; the natural progression of such things. It always eventually passes.

The Morning After
Stay with me in this bed
so free of adornment and conceit.
I do not know why you chose me.
I can only cherish it;
your skin so soft,
your hair so messy;
smelling of lilacs
and cigarette smoke.
The sunlight shines upon you
through a single window
in my second story apartment bedroom.
There is no reason to leave this bed;
we have covers,
we are both semi nude and the breeze
blows a fresh spring gale through the screen.
Meet me under the sleeping bag
I use as a comforter and kiss me,
our lips meeting yet another time.
And when you have tired
of such moments I will long for
until they are true again,
let's get breakfast.

Aaron C. Molden





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