Girl Next Door

Megan Denese Mealor

Girl Next Door emerged like a prism every dawn from

a gable-front cottage inked into the mountainside. I

would watch her unfold her elastic olive limbs, waking

up fussy bones from their sugary snooze. Even from

my awkward bow window I could sense the essences

of lemongrass, lavender, and lime

seeping through her bamboo pajamas, wildflower

honey coasting from lived-in beige roots. 

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She had too many boyfriends to pinpoint their archetypes,

 hotshot stallions strutting her down stooping halls, a prize

 leopard: dark golden spots arrayed in rosettes. 

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Three or four tilted mornings a week, 

she would appear on the purple-dyed front porch draped in

buttery layers and spicy stirrup leggings, slicked-back bun,

shearling-lined slides, bone broth thermos. 

Heading to her recent Jaguar, painted Satin Rhodon Rose,

she swung her fluent arms like a reckless ballerina, a

stealthy slight twinkle blazing on her spotless face

as she lilted into those ladylike moments 

still yet locked and unlockable to me.