from Written into the Curve

of the Sea's Open Throat

​

A Woman Observes 

 

i.

 

Today I'm making fennel golden-raisin scones, 

eggs with shitakes and swiss, a good stiff black tea. 

 

Yet I can't help picture the homeless woman 

who strips from the waist down

 

on the pavement outside the autobody shop, 

sunburnt in winter. 

 

I pass by weekly. 

Maybe if I stared longer 

 

she would stand, cover herself. 

I don't call anyone. 

 

ii.

 

Coreopsis line the day, faces of bright gold petals 

with orange centers. Yet we have no use for them, 

 

have mastered a stance like crows waiting for cows 

to shit so we can pick through 

 

as flies hover. We chant 

separately or in groups. 

 

Knees, leggy legs, thighs, fallow 

stems ready to innuendo a feast. 

 

We inverse ourselves if necessary. 

Preside on the Supreme Court, cull 

 

the larynx for the right tone, weigh decisions. 

Master the stars written out of a scientist's paper.

 

I'm rash with coercive thoughts. 

Want to cover the naked woman because 

 

she can't. Would like to be chlorophyll, responsible 

for the color green. 

 

Would like to reverse the universe. 

​

Image: Perle Fine The Sea's Throat

copyright A.E. Artworks, LLC​​​