Kim Hodges

salsa

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.







after passing

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 Morning

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