Dear All, Faithful Readers,
Please take a few minutes and read this magnificent piece of art.
by Luisa Banchoff
Her guilty lip has witnessed the harvesting of
days. Her nostrils are night’s unthreaded needles. Each
lash is your unplucked wish that rears up an Easter
bell of shivering dew. The scissorwomen stitched
jealous light into her eyes, whose thread spring fingers
grasp for and toddleresque time yanks at stubbornly.
The lids, gilded frames left unhung, seesaw night in
to day with the blink that says I am. The freckles
draw lots beneath a crucifix of thornbush hair.
The ears cling right and left, curtained by the next words.
Her neck is a road you traveled once, age ten, to
see your image in the shine of a fruit vendor’s
pear. Her breath is the someone you saw there, a face
made of sugar and light. You are the first stumbling
bite that reddens at itself. She is the tilt of
the kind head that looks away. You are the mouth that
spits the seed on cobblestoned earth and offers the
half-born hand in apology. But she is the
core that is thrown in the street, forgiving you, like
a kiss left to linger on the brow of morning.
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