Eddies spin the glaucous pip, stentorian ‘what’s your pleasure?’
of a boy-hipped, windmill-tickling girl. The neighborhood
is already well-purpled with her flowers, the brief sun sluicing
her lane, warmth rising as if on pigeon wings: the ever-rich
perfume of an unsettled, disorderly life. The man she interests
has watched her three days running, watching through the tangled
shadows’ rise and fall, the swirl and camphor pulse of this all-day
street. He watches how she coughs into her fist, then wipes her
hand on her sleeve before resuming her pinch and stroke of the
lavender bunches she hopes to sell, calling out at breathy intervals
in a child’s croupy voice. He will join the next wave,
moving in businesslike among the crowd, then hanging back
until he’s shored beside her, slowing his pace till she goes silent,
eyes wondering upwards. Will she lower her voice from general
to specific? Will her ‘buy me lavender’ be his and his alone?
Stopping, taking a step towards her, then another, leaning in
to speak into her ear, putting his gloved fingers upon her sleeve,
upon her lapel even? The amount first, then the catalogued item,
a sum incredible enough to chloroform her outrage and prudence,
once he arrives at the words for the wished-for.
He has never failed yet and his triumphs electrify his intent,
the metaphysics of his desire: her body, her soul. Quick-witted
she may be, but will she risk her 11 or 12-year old’s wisdom
against his? A body for sale but a soul no man, no thing,
no one but God can touch, however much she is womaned
out of recognition. The lavender girl coughs, rubs her fingers
on the bloom-cradling sleeve of her once-bright, never-
new coat, notes only now the gentleman who stops,
and smiles, and leans down as if to strangely kiss her cheek,
whose leather fingers curl around her wrist,
who speaks the words which God might speak,
the riddle she has no choice but to answer.