“zoning out?” he asks, but no, I’m staring
at those anonymous earrings,
this tarnished night adorned
with a forgotten souvenir of an adjunct lover.
posts pointed toward the window, deep blue
like the stones inlaid in that famous coffin. I
imagine his slender fingers placing them there
so he can whisper unobscured
something about her eyes or her body,
or drop “I love you”s
like uncertain girls pulling colors off a flower.
I want to slip them into my braid,
blue winks in the brown plait,
the way I slid that odd black hairpin
into the matted weave, claiming these
faceless women and wearing
their lust like babylonian finery.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s