She came from long unquestioned places where metallic glare and smell of asphalt baste the skin to darkness and white the opened eye. She hones sharp angles of the mind, held above a neck stretched forward. Bare arms and thighs are marked with tracings of reality and other alleys. She wears an amulet carved from pieces of past times she could not throw away, held tight against the nostril's curve, a diversion into scent and instinct. She wraps blue veins pulsing in the wrist where straightness has been broken. At her feet grow unknown flowers with clanging names and no power to transform. Copyright © Anne Fraser
All Pages Copyright © 2001
All Rights Reserved
All poems owned by individual author and should not be reproduced without permision.