His Eyes

November 19, 2007
By Emma Trevor, Lincolnshire, IL

His Eyes
Striding through the dark
curving hallway,
I fuss at my short, cropped hair
although I know
it makes no difference.

I stop
just before the door
to glance down
at my long-sleeve shirt of rosy
hue. Is it centered?
Yes, over my tummy,
all too aware that he (yes he)
will be there.

I roll my shoulders back—
for a girl, at least my mother
always said so (with that look).
I roll them again,
feel the tension in my upper back
the pinch that haunts the part of me
I cannot reach,
(and neither can my chiropractor),
for my parents’ pocketbook
(and my psyche).

I gradually slide my shoulder blades
down my back
The yoga teacher commands
great confidence, respect with his posture—
perfection I seek
to imitate

in hopes he’ll notice,
maybe this time.

Chest and chin leading,
I enter, illuminated
by the surprising light
of the worst class
of my lonely schoolday…
and yet my pulse quickens.

He is there, yes right there, sitting so close, so close
(well, on the other side of the room I suppose,
if you must be so technical about it)
Notice me! Look, my posture, isn’t it outstanding?
Just look at me, just look, just smile!
I watch him intently,
forgetting I am quite an obstruction,
standing in the doorway still.

His hands dig violently
through his bulging backpack
but, suddenly, his eyes—
electric, mesmerizing,
meet mine

for a moment
for a brief second
if only he won’t blink,

then he returns to that wretched task.
Calculus. Calculus! Over me.
I purse my unforgiving lips
and look away.

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