in the mall with pink tables and artifical plants he eats pineapple pizza I eat nachos with guacamole and nonfat sourcream there is not enough salsa there is never enough salsa somewhere toward the bottom the chips are dry.
look at the remains of your life small bottles of makeup lipstick, powder and ask, are you here? the jewel boxes on the table, one chain hanging over the edge stockings on the dresser, not moving anything for fear you may disappear. I try on your clothes one by one and feel your arms around me.
I have not cut my hair
I have not cut my hair since I last saw you it hangs in ruddy drapes against my back naked as I turn before the mirror an offering too late stepping from the shower the steam like memories between us thins on the cooling air vanishes with opening of a door my hair is longer now you will not see it no eyes reflected in the glass but mine
Sunday breakfast she stirs the batter watches it run down the spoon an agile drop into the bowl one long fluid stream reminds her of a dancer in a bar, bending over her hand, black pants, a Marimba twirled across the floor, the yellow drops beating on her wrist, a late night kiss within the cavern of a car, the slam of screen door and running feet, she licks the ivory from her sleeve.
© 1997 Kim Hodges