To Comfort a Sharp Girl
You are wandering through England with no one
to worry, wonder if a too-smooth man
might latch his fancy on your child-like hands
that crash Rachmaninoff, then quick, have done
with you. You brushed our city from your pants,
which color splattered and caked with sand,
had once been worn at night by your dead mum
who stayed awake to paint and curse her hands
for standing stubbornly two steps below
mastery. She left you deepened by loss—
seductive, small and violent you hurled
a lamp against a wall, behaved as though
you’d sighed. Wide-eyed I followed you across
your wars, coaxed gentle until fists uncurled.
No comments:
Post a Comment