A Field of Chamomile

Angela Huang

I met her sitting in a metal chair.
The chair sat unbalanced, on the
grassy mud floor, in the center of
a field of chamomile.
She sat there, lost in thought,
criss cross applesauce,
staring up at the sky, the
scent of the flowers flying into the
air,
dancing like fairies on each of
our noses.
And perhaps the image of
that
would always be stapled into my brain, the image of her
long hair tilted back kissing
the tips of the buds, the image of her eyes
longing to be places they weren’t.
And maybe the image will change and
morph as time went on. The
ticking clock
would make her fingers rest in a different place,
the clouds arranged differently than before.
Maybe it’ll be the same, an
unchanging painting
lasting in my head only getting worn out but
not different. Like
Mona Lisa in her tiny case, suffocating
and tired from the flickering lights and the constant
eyes
staring.

Maybe.