Sunday, November 6, 2016

Allison Morris #6 'She'

I know that when the years are draped around her
she will shear off her ocean of hair, dark and sweet as molasses, 

or her perfume.
A vision of seduction preserved,
she will sip scotch
(neat, she'll say with a wink, a touch of the hand)
and slyly, sidelong, whisper
odd snippets, non-sequiturs and unsettling propositions
to uncertain young men.
She will suck on her dark chocolate laughter and watch
as they sidle away politely, the punch-lines of her little joke.


I will laugh with her later,
impressed by her brava
do
the carelessness of children, or nudists
because I will always fear
the laughter of strangers. 

2 comments:

  1. Wonderful poem, Allison.
    It turns on language. And time.
    And wonderful to be still telling jokes,
    although they make men flee!

    ReplyDelete
  2. and the strangeness of laughter

    ReplyDelete

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