This woman who sits on airplanes,

Who eats too much chocolate,

Is loved in a generic way,

By a mother 

And a father 

Who haven't seen her

In seventeen months,

The cells in her body have mostly

Been replaced by new ones

Which look like the old ones 

But must be worse

In almost imperceptible

But substantial ways

Because she 

Like you 

And everything else

Except some special jellyfish

Has an expiration date,

And her day of utmost beauty

And health 

Caught her unawares. 

She was busy translating 

Ovid in a cold building with

Orange walls,

Under the watch

Of a failed scholar

With dry, yellow hair

Who knew little about life,

And nothing about love.

Sadness would resurface

Periodically

Like a toothache,

When she let her focus slip,

Which was rare except at night,

Since survival,

Back then,

Meant perfect grades,

And she very much wanted to live

Just in case things might get better

Eventually,

When she would surround herself

With books

And maybe people

That would both comfort

And excite her.

Once Ovid was conquered

She would slowly walk 

Through resonating hallways

Towards the white-tiled restroom

Taking a detour first,

Acutely aware of the way her scarf

Fell on her shoulders,

Wondering if this time

She would get a glimpse of someone

Through a door left open

By a teacher who enjoyed a breeze,

Her hope unreasonable,

Since even if she did,

He would not have been looking,

He would not have noticed

That her beautiful blue scarf,

Which matched her hair so perfectly,

Was meant to suggest

Horse rides in the Sahara desert,

Like in that Italian TV series from the eighties.

Sixteen years later she's on her way to Helsinki

Sitting next to a flatulent man

Who eats beef bourguignon.

She's eating bread and butter,

She's forgotten to pre-order

Her vegetarian meal.

The boys who secretly admired her

At recess

Are musicians now

Or more likely dead,

Because how can somebody go on

Eating soup

Or tuning strings

After missing that moment

When a long warm glance

Of recognition 

Could have changed everything,

Reversed the relentless

Flow from full to empty?

She would have shared her body

With them,

Laughed at herself for not doing it sooner

This mingling of minds and hopes and terrors,

A breathless, shivering clarity, 

A new resolution forming,

The promise to let herself be seen,

As ugly as she felt.

Thanks to that glance

This woman,

Twice the age of that girl,

Would be writing a different poem today,

Or nothing at all,

She would maybe know better

Than clinging to this love for men who don't get her,

Compelled to reenact it

Until the spell is broken,

Holding on to the hope

Of an alternate ending.

She is doomed to be loved

Unconditionally

Only by sweet men she gets tired of 

In a month

While the men she wants,

Playful, witty, but with an icy core that 

She keeps mistaking for genius,

Admire her at first

But get tired of her intensity,

Suspect she might be nuts,

Hope she will leave them alone at last,

To their silly Texan girlfriends who do porn star tricks

(Why on earth does she need to know this?)

And laugh hysterically to the jokes she never gets

Because she was translating Ovid in Italy

When That guy said That thing

On American TV,

Or is it a hip-hop reference?

But really,

She might just not be funny

And she will always have

An accent,

Such an easy target for their cruelty

Once it's lost its charm,

Which happens on Week Two.

She's done this to herself,

This exile west,

So that feeling out of place

Would sound perfectly normal,

Her sudden lack of words

Justified,

And again tomorrow,

As she lands in Rome,

She has a convenient excuse,

It's her new life in America

That will set her apart,

Her familiarity with 

Squirrels,

Bad Mexican food, 

Automatic transmissions,

Nights spent at bars

As a shortcut to each other's

Softness,

Stumbling through Pilsen 

To a basement full of rabbits,

Laying it all out,

Bodies quivering with lust,

Only to take everything back

In the morning

When they will walk

Through the city

Like enemies

And if only she -

If only he -

...

If only

He was struck by lightning

Or, as an alternative,

He begged for her forgiveness,

She could finally move on

And desire to kiss

The perfectly lovely guy 

With Viking cheekbones 

who will hand her

A latte

At Starbucks.