Sunday, June 16, 2013

I Told Her, “It Must Feel like a Curse Sometimes,” and She Looked Back to Say, “It’s Really Bad When I Work It”

Her perfume lags behind,
turns masculine minds

She adds just enough dip and sway
to her relaxed sashay, refuses to turn
to see who sees.

Her walk is a shape poem, visual art
without abstraction, metaphor, or simile.
It is a divinity of simplicity,

making boorish Bukowski stammer,
“Alas, what angel are you that hath passed
just by?” Alas, indeed!

Her walk has power enough
to straighten Whitman into a wolf-whistle
and Ginsberg into a howl.

Boston Literary Magazine - Summer 2013

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