her boots
by
Aaron Holland
I was on my way to you when I left the house.
She had only walked by a few seconds before.
As we shared the street
I noticed the hem of her skirt.
Trilled and slurred- the color muted. Like her hair.
Grey. as it has been for a while.-pulled back
by a sun-ripened ribbon. It matched her lips.
The wrinkles that followed led me to discover her eyes.
She looked at me
Six feet in Timbs. Unshaven in full goose down. My Hair
Sticking up out of my headband like the caps to a thousand
Junglefruits.
My eyes, dark and low from the chief.
as she turned her gaze forward
Her blouse made itself known. Plants and animal life.
She wore her mother hood around with her. and has.and will.
The neck line seamed to hang onto the flesh; wrenched onto
the body
it must protect. As the fabric in the seams
folded and again
I saw her lips again. The straight line of expressionlessness
had now changed
into an “n” shape. The curve of which darted my eyes to the
seams
in her stockings
which danced too
as she began to run.
I felt the heat of Catharsis burn the back of my neck and ooze
down my spine
as she stuck her head out of the corner store she ducked into.
To watch me pass. To make sure I passed.
I wondered at that moment, where she got her boots.
Last edited on Thu Mar 6th, 2008 11:20 pm by Airtop
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