The Most Interesting Woman in the World by Kristi Nimmo

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I go to the hill of woodmost-interesting-woman-200

to learn to speak the language of trees.




Laundry soap


Blessed are the men who wear leather pants;

girls who have low-tolerance for ugly things.


Her vulva plump, luxurious, veined with a year of cherries

that grew in the thicket, she was older than the woods.


I knew the way to the hill. 


In the springtime, a disguised Buddha spoke to me on an elephant.

We drank tea at the temple gate. 


He raised his hands and vanished (vanquished)

into the dream of a husband riding an elephant.


I want to be an elegant woman, I said.

He gave me the riches of a stone villa overlooking the Mediterranean.


We drank notes–the celebrated pianist in the salon

staving the dove and the cuckoo bird in a Swiss clock


close at hand benediction.

Crippled in his joints and rippling the keys reeling in the faithful


lions and crocodile with plaid skirts,

the couples would retire at night to make love.


I painted the seawall and the boy on it fishing for squid

into the nighttime.


It is a pleasure to receive

notes from the living.


They are all young.

It is everywhere.






Stretching inhibitions–

all the time


blaming rough surfaces

for tensions.


I will let go and into a feather mattress fall.

What am I trying to do, reasoning with


a girl with a mind like yours?

No rest for the weary when we get in.


Because you are thinking you want one—


a new notebook.


And how wonderful it is

the charmed smile of the girl

next door to the palace.

Places I go to study rings.

Each one a mild prick.


I am a treasure in a tree.


I am beautiful and I have visions,

A talent for finding the finest point.


The hill says its name El Cerro de Madera.

Struck with happiness inside a ship

with a broken mast and no cloth, I do not wander.

I sit at the foot of the hill of wood and eat its corn

& its bun with sesame seeds on top.


I go to the hill of wood, and there is no tenderness,

just the madness of lust with a broken mast.

Two lovers.  They rode there from Chile on horses.

She is bare-bottomed and he is a strong chest.


They mount the animals too. I will remember this forever.

Horse and man.  Horse and woman.


My ankles itch and the angles of my body

rare dipping into the  quick sands;

my candy-stripe pants don’t fit.  Because I am white

I go into the sun to scrape off the layers of chalk.


Swaying as I walk, I am hunted by the cavity of my body.

I could come down to you.  I could borrow the phrases


of the two lovers at the hill of wood, the way they move, plundering (plying)

the hill with ashes and careful caresses felt on the tongue, the hair,


The cerebellum, flowering with heirs of orgasms:

I bore into the top of the hill, goosebumps sibiliant spit flying out.


I want the voice in the hill of wood to emerge

a woman with a bronze body, tall, slender, strong.


Ancient, and she is the perfect woman, the most interesting woman

in the entire world.  She wears white linen, an A-line tunic, with gold


thread embroidered pyramids and owl on the front

& back with parrot-blue pants.  Her hair is silver-colored and soft


and plenty & her face is not the colorless face of the old, but buttery

and ruby and tinged with copper.  I want her to say to me: You too


are the most interesting woman in the world.


She is middle aged.  She appears now with a round, plump face, like a perfect apple,

an aphrodisiac.  Her voice is astounding the world.  She says what she thinks and is careful and passionate about what she thinks.  There are

no limits to the beauty of her body, to her grace, to her charms, to the way

in which she sits, just barely touching the seat of a chair, yet so comfortable.  She dances with the fluidity of lighter fluid and the scent of scenes of history in the making—

She is the pope at the Vatican, she is the mistress of a statesman; there is no world to save or to make better; it already is that way.


She is young.  Infinity.  She is the kite that breaks off the string and flies into the wind.


In my notebooks, she is the captain of an industry of chandeliers

of milky pilk, opal, the milky,  sea blue of colored glass, and bright green,

in graceful C’s turned on their back, swagged, melted

into a column of butterflies

pegged to a bronze shaft. I am in love with the world.


Nothing can be haphazard; it is either thought of or it is not.  She shows

me the filing cabinet and opens the “B” drawer.  Do you know

what I have in there? Beautiful thoughts. 


She is the most interesting woman in the world & I have created her.

Life is sweet and I love it—the pastry with the pink frosting and

wonderful sprinkles; my mouth waters with the inhalation

tasting sweetness.  The woman of the hill

climbed out of its hole on a whim.  She says I am playing

hard to get and she wants nothing to do with the inconsolable.

It’s not that she is a hard woman but she has expectations

that people get what they want and ask for. 


Hector the Great is the name of the rabbit that lives on the hill of wood.

Dipping into the victorious pool of water that my boat came in on,

I do it my way.  “That’s right,” the woman of the hill of wood says.

Shirley and Laverne on bicycles.


We are finished now.

Finished with being spoken to.  Finished with all of the “They say.”s


She calls them her fauna.  Her pets. The man.

The woman. Vaporized.


I have notebooks and notebooks of drawings and words.

They are picture books with something for everyone.


My blood is letting into my vagina.  I feel it as if

the universe has ejaculated into me.  It is pleasant.


It is flowing out. I pay attention to how it trickles,

making its way slowly to the lips of the vagina


that want to close over the hole to keep the universe in.

The woman of the hill of wood is weeding her garden.


She looks into the rushes and puts down the rake methodical. 

Her hair is combed.  She bolts to the crest of the hill


and flings herself into a hole, as if she is a virgin sacrifice to a volcano. 

I should have seen it coming because I am the one with the notebooks


with the drawings and the words and with the images I sometimes

cut out and tape to the paper.  I am borrowing.  Everything


to be created was always created.  The woman of the hill of wood

El Cerro de Madera is a visionary, and she will not stand still


for the times as they are.  She dives into the hole to come out

into a different place than the rest of us.  I climb up the hill, too.


I drop myself into the hole.


AUTHOR BIO: Kristi Nimmo is a writer, painter, and meditation teacher.  Her poetry has appeared in Mouse Tales Press, em:me magazine, and Yes, Poetry.  She lives in Leesburg, Virginia.