Face
I do not like
the face at the window –
that foreign hair
curling in protest,
lips parted like nuns
and the damp soil of home
shadowing her cheeks.
Her eyes are too full –
gulls lost at sea,
stinging and fighting
back the waves.
Oh, I know how she feels –
the heave of tides
burning in her belly
and the sharp scent
of salt beading up
on the glass,
waiting for night
to close the curtains.
Burlesque Press 