I know a woman that I don’t know anything about.
I know so little about her that I don’t know where to begin.

I don’t know the names of her cats, or her children, or her grandchildren.
I don’t know if she’s from Portugal or Pascagoula.

I don’t know that she tried to grow an orange tree inside her head.
Or that her Guardian Angel wears a Captain’s suit— and lives in New Brunswick.

If she stood beside me I’d be clumsy and wouldn’t know where to put my arm.
And I have no idea what she feels like pressed against my chest.

I don’t t know her fears: flying in airplanes, spiders and **** roaches, and Me.
Especially Me.

I don’t know what she tastes like.
And I can only wonder about her tongue in my mouth.

I don’t know that her hair is perfect.
Or whether she’d like a picnic in the desert.

In fact, I’ve never seen her hair, and we’ve never been to the desert together.
I must be thinking of someone else.

I do not know that she has a husky voice and tells me stories.
Or whether her laugh sounds like wind in a pine cone.

How would I know if she snores under a half moon on the highway?
Or whether she fancies fruit pastry?

I don’t know if she is as cruel as a nun with a yardstick.
Or if she’d go with me to a place she’s never been.

I certainly don’t know how she makes me feel. How would I?
And, I don’t have a clue— nary an inkling— about falling in love with her.

Because I don’t know anything about her.