16D by Sherman Alexie (This is such a great poem, I had to twice solicit people to read it.)

On the airplane, the woman across the aisle and one row in front of me was beautiful. She wore the best pair of blue jeans in the history of the world. Okay, I’m exaggerating. Is there such a thing as the greatest jeans in the world? Can denim be sacred? Probably not. But I’m trying to make a point here. The woman was an epic series of curves. The ghost of some ancient Greek lute player is vainly searching for his instrument so he can sing ballads for and about her. Okay, I’m exaggerating again. The woman on the plane was not as beautiful as Helen of Troy. Armies would not clash by night in order to win the airplane woman’s love. But I’m pretty sure two or three guys on that airplane would have wrestled each other to win her attention. But I’m getting carried away again. Let’s not get too focused on physical beauty. The woman was also scribbling poems into her notebook. All during the four-hour flight, she wrote poems. How do I know they were poems? There were only five or six words on each line. And she’d occasionally pause to close her eyes and move her lips—silently reciting all the possible rhymes, I imagine—and then scribble more of her skinny lines. I doubt she was writing good poetry. The odds are heavily against it. But how many people have watched me—a big brown guy—scribbling on a plane and thought I was writing good poems?

Um, don’t answer that question.

Well, anyway, as I watched the woman write poems, she scratched her left ear with her right index finger. Then she scratched behind her left ear with the same finger. She scratched surprisingly hard. And then she surreptitiously sniffed her scratching finger.

Ah, musk!
Ah, sour oil!
Ah, dank wetness!

I laughed with delight. The woman heard me, looked back, and realized that I’d seen her sniff her finger. She reddened—shamed for a moment—but then her face grew mean and dark. She hated that I’d caught her in a weak moment, and she hated me for staring at her. She huffed and turned her back to me.

But, wait!
I wanted her to wait!
I wanted her to listen to me!

“Stranger,” I wanted to say. “Yes, you’re beautiful. But don’t you realize that you, a lovely human, are also a lovely animal?”

Would she have understood me? I don’t know.

Later that day, at home, I greeted my wife. I kissed her—she tasted of garlic—and I hugged her—she’d just returned from a walk and smelled of sun and sweat—and I pushed my face into the hair above her left ear and breathed in her scent.

Ah, musk!
Ah, sour oil!
Ah, dank wetness!
Ah, wife!
I sing this animal song for you!