LIKE A GREEN OLIVE TREE

I don't know a lot

about other women,

but are they twinned

in the mirror,

eyes combing through

every year this or that

just didn't work out

but thoughtfully left

its initials under an eye?

The other day, I caught

my photo from years ago

and thought about You,

what it's like to take in

such a magnificent creature

although, I admit, I have

no wings or a lion's head

that might turn some heads.

But what about now, day

in, another day out,

my face still stuck to a piece

of glass, my face simultaneously 

falling through cracked earth,

and a man still loving me,

calling me beautiful,

even though the voice

in my head rolls its eyes?

Can You love a little

lump of clay, crumbling

from time's breath,

from the stubborn this's

and that's that all had

other plans?

Can You love a "me"

that no longer knows

where to look.