Knar Gavin

Ode, Her

Neighbor-moms called me
fast paste, then flattened
their daughters
with irons, slow pastures.

They chaffed into dust while
I, Mouth to the mega
hone, pursed, sucked
it in. Lashed lids with masc
ara—aria of hinge—the
sweeping doors of my
feathered wink. A real
looker, I look. Am also
looked back. And man

icure sometimes, with a swipe
of lacquer, fastest paste. The
liquor closet from which
I Spring. I snatch

the proverbial pooch out
from Neighbor-moms' Purse
and place fore
finger there on the meat
of the bitch-dog's hound
quarter—I press
down to move the whole
limb. In this history
of limning, I shine. I press
the extensor and the leg swings out.

Backward   |   Issue Four   |   Forward