177: Ideal, Deceased (R.I.P.)

You invite her over

when your parents go out. It isn't a secret;

they have met before (though they don't quite understand her).

She has a natural grace, motions measured in sufficiency,

and you like watching her for no other reason

than to see her fill a glass of water

to half an inch below the rim,

then rest against the counter and take a sip,

five careful sips, both hands curled

around the glass.

It is a grace you wish you had.

You know hers comes from a perfection

practiced to the brink, failed and tried again,

but it seems so innate, so part of all she is,

that you feel there must be more to it

than simple practice.

She turns on the radio — an old thing, only used

by your father when nostalgia seizes him — and she plays a song

not yet invented.

She sets her glass aside and offers you a hand,

and you take it, because for all her measured gracefulness

her improvisations are a pain, so you try to show her

how you've learned to do it, wishing that you both wore shoes

instead of woollen socks on slippery tiles.

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Written by: Katrine Hjulstad

Instagram: @katrinehjulstad

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Publisher's note: Please note that all poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been seen by our editors, and that the editors have suggested revisions where they see fit, but we believe that it is ultimately the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions and take no responsibility for which suggestions they accept or reject.