scarecrow poetics/essays

We relied too much on cinema
to create feelings and situations.
In the background, I always thought -
I didn’t love you. I couldn’t love you. I only love
The attention you lavish on my lonely
American scenario -
The one you must have seen before studying
Martin Luther King in Georgia.
The women who threw themselves at your accent.
Or maybe in the office.
I was the easy, American intern spread like footprints
In the rain.
I remember walking through London intersections,
Umbrella in hand,
Hating the prospects of slave labor, but looking forward to,
Perhaps, you making an excuse to touch my shoulder.
In front of co-workers, I blush all vodka drunk.
Our battleground - your London bed. My time of the month
This kind of honeymoon virginity
As unplanned as your proposal.
I wanted to be the Sylvia to your Ted.
We were over.
I cried
Not because the film was sad, in particular,
But because I knew I was Charlotte and you were Bob Harris.
We were both actors looking to be more than actors.
And it was then that I realized
I loved you.

Glenna Myles © 2006.

Glenna Myles currently lives and writes in Los Angeles, CA.