2.28.2011

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

2.21.2011

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

2.17.2011

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

2.04.2011

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

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