The New Shampooer

combs the women's shining hair
with giant fingers; he is tender, mesmerized
as any first-time lover.

He moves his bear-bulk
between the tiny sinks, all the while
humming, hoping to please.

He does not realize
how he blesses the wet-haired women,
whose temples have lain untouched
for so very long.

photograph by Kirsten Kapur


The Alchemist

rehearses picking the runes--
E; B; F sharp--in
sorcerous order. He coughs
in the room.
He dials the number.
The world rolls like a wave.

In a valley of lead skyscrapers
her telephone rings.
With winter-heavy hands
she lifts it to a cold ear.
He takes a breath--

Her skin goes pink.
Her sky goes gold.

photograph by the incredible Alison Scarpulla


Licentious Spring

Forsythia this morning
popped in shameless yellow
over the broken hedge.

EDIT: I learned later that the hedge is winter jasmine, not forsythia. That's okay; same number of syllables. So:

Winter jasmine this morning
popped in shameless yellow
over the broken hedge.

(I still like forsythia better.)

photograph by Jennifer Way


Eve After Eden

I am not woman;
I am a pile of ashes. Like soft little shingles:
snug where the overlap is. But shingles of ashes,
and even the best cinder brace
dimples, chinks, and collapses
in the cold wind of your face.

photograph by Gideon Ansell

 photo copyright.jpg
envye template.