10.1 Spring/Summer 2012

Marielle Prince Will You Tell Me If You Will



The question was red it was on her mouth          or it was black it was penciled in around her eyes          or the mark of it slung around her waist          or dangled from her ears or it hung down her back it swayed like the hypnotist’s watch chain          or chimes in a soft breeze not quite making a sound

You saw the question          or looking right at it didn’t see          or you saw and its language was foreign          or too familiar to notice          or you saw it you covered it quickly with your hands as if it were shameful          or yours to guard          or full sun in the direction you were headed

And her eyes were closed          or they were open and she was blinded          or you unclasped the question behind her back          or she sighed and laid it aside herself          or she dropped it and found it in the morning and hid it under her clothes          or saved it and went to bed with it as if it were you          or the dark          or an alarm set to wake her the same each day


 


Marielle Prince is a native of Durham, North Carolina. Currently working on her MFA at the University of Virginia, she teaches an introductory poetry workshop and is poetry editor of Meridian.