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
the carelessness of children, or nudists
because I will always fear
the laughter of strangers. 


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

  2. and the strangeness of laughter


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