by Jéanpaul Ferro
Her soul was the color of God,
a thunderhead of apple red, and in wavelengths,
vestigial hips and thighs/the drunkenness
that comes thereafter;
the palpable lure of Everest, the way you
conquer it when it is easily conquering you,
translucent as night, a shrouded thing to wrap
and unwrap;
midnight in a blind dress, the sticky and
beautiful idea on the tips of tongues,
India and Pakistan, fingers in her bible,
a last visage of 1960’s hope;
two contradictory quarks, but it all makes sense,
an autobiography of tomorrow written in today,
two empty hotels along the Hudson River,
two bridges drenched in sky—flailing, clawing,
a mirror of the sun for a thousand years.
From:
Jazz (Honest Publishing, 2011)
Last updated August 30, 2011