Thursday, January 31, 2008

The surface doesn’t tell much,
reflecting up only what the rain gives,
its myriad cracks and fissures
drowning in detritus
delivered by irreverant bodies.
The neon strobe inhales, exhales
ambient light,
bathing her
as she finds solace
against the wet brick,
contemplating
his words.
She knows the smell
of this alley,
its summer haze,
its winter chill,
knows how hard the wall is
when he’s in his throes
and forgets that she is soft.
She’ll remember
this night
when she’s old,
the reeking garbage,
the teasing smell of
moo gai pan
from the restaurant next door,
the putrifying death
of desire
in a wet alley.

Sharon Cullars, 2007

Labels: Poetry