She'll Remind You Of Bees
It was her yellow and black striped tights.
Later, it was her unthinking kindnesses,
the way her eyes sparkled when she had a plan,
tiny snatches of song whistled
even when life was tough,
but at first, it was tights.
Alex was at the beginner's pottery class on a dare:
a stupid flatmate resolution to force each other
to step beyond the boundaries.
It was held in a school art classroom,
nostalgia painted in the wrong shade,
with unfamiliar shapes and reminiscent scents.
The demographic was decidedly aged.
As Alex entered, almost late but not quite,
the room was full of grey haired gossip,
leaving only workspaces near the front,
in the firing line, or as it was, the front line
for being nearly hit by yellow and black legs.
Bag on floor, one misstep, and the contents spilt--
keys, sweets, loose change, tablets in blister packs--
and so Alex spilt too, down to save everything,
and from that vantage point didn't notice the newcomer
until she was but tights in the face,
almost toes on fingers, and a sudden shit!
She was a vision of trailing hair, billowing shirt,
was that a paintbrush tucked into her skirt,
and the tights, which blew Alex away like no one had.
Here was a hurricane, who sat down beside Alex
and pulled a tiny knitted bee from her bag,
handed it over like that was a normal apology.
Later, it was her determination despite all,
the way she flitted about a room, perching not resting,
and the tendency to eat a fingerful of honey just because,
but then it was the yellow and black stripes
that started the process of falling, maybe flying,
into something that would end up as love.
It was her yellow and black striped tights.
Later, it was her unthinking kindnesses,
the way her eyes sparkled when she had a plan,
tiny snatches of song whistled
even when life was tough,
but at first, it was tights.
Alex was at the beginner's pottery class on a dare:
a stupid flatmate resolution to force each other
to step beyond the boundaries.
It was held in a school art classroom,
nostalgia painted in the wrong shade,
with unfamiliar shapes and reminiscent scents.
The demographic was decidedly aged.
As Alex entered, almost late but not quite,
the room was full of grey haired gossip,
leaving only workspaces near the front,
in the firing line, or as it was, the front line
for being nearly hit by yellow and black legs.
Bag on floor, one misstep, and the contents spilt--
keys, sweets, loose change, tablets in blister packs--
and so Alex spilt too, down to save everything,
and from that vantage point didn't notice the newcomer
until she was but tights in the face,
almost toes on fingers, and a sudden shit!
She was a vision of trailing hair, billowing shirt,
was that a paintbrush tucked into her skirt,
and the tights, which blew Alex away like no one had.
Here was a hurricane, who sat down beside Alex
and pulled a tiny knitted bee from her bag,
handed it over like that was a normal apology.
Later, it was her determination despite all,
the way she flitted about a room, perching not resting,
and the tendency to eat a fingerful of honey just because,
but then it was the yellow and black stripes
that started the process of falling, maybe flying,
into something that would end up as love.
Siobhan Dunlop is a UK-based poet and book blogger with poems published in 404 Ink, Pixel Heart, Re-Analogue, meanwhile magazine, Crêpe & Penn, 3 Moon, Vamp Cat and The Speculative Book 2019. They love reworking classic texts and reading about tech, and can be found on Twitter under @fiendfull.