by Marie Starr
His eyes did rest upon Julia’s breast
as she spoke or questioned or sighed,
until she shaved her head one day
to spite his wandering eye;
now when she speaks or quests or sighs
his eyes rest on her barren brow,
on the memory of her hairline
and the fate that awaits him now.
From:
Published in Haz Mat Literary Review: Vol 7, Issue 2
Copyright ©:
2001
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Basic Mantra: “Disturb the comfortable; Comfort the disturbed." I am a writer & artist & photographer & fool. I try to use my fractal focus and obsessive tendencies to illuminate the edges of invisibility. I can usually be found around town snapping pics of locals, chasing my kids, drawing abstractions with my sharpies or long & gangly sticks, writing whatever happens to spill out of my pen, & reading banned books.
Last updated September 07, 2011