Caucasian woman, late 20s, wearing a black sun dress, tied about the neck. It reminds me of countless women sunbathing, that tie. Her wrist is wrapped round in a length of white beads. If memory serves, there's a tattoo on her rhomboid, the muscle that draws the scapula toward the vertebral column and slightly upward. Some muscles need be named.
Good Meat, Dani Couture (Pedlar Press)
Page 59:
From "midnight grocery shopping after watching days and days of viking week on the history channel"
an elderly lady hovering
beside the green beans
clutches
her pink sequined purse
tight to her sagging chest.
overripe tomatoes fall
from her gnarled-root hands,
explode, then bleed
onto the cool green linoleum.
i smell blood
and like it.
I sat in the front row, self-conscious and alone, vague and impatient. I draped my arm over the back of the steel chair, crossed my leg broad and fiddled with my cell phone, a sulking picture of indifference. The readers were strong, vibrant, amusing women. As she stepped to the microphone there were the red toe nails, easy gestures, fluid wrists, and such friendly eyes. Joy in the work that had been done, now to be shared. She began to read and I felt limp. She made herself in my home. Simple words, suddenly. And inspiration came. I found myself composing a thought, a letter, god help me, a poem? her soothing voice threading itself throughout mine. Was that a shoulder shake? A chuckle? An appreciative nod, my face settling into an expression, perhaps, a smile? I left without hellos or goodbyes, quickly resting my hand on the wrist of an acquaintance as I was half out the door. I walked the hour home, upright, eager to put pen to paper.
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