I can close my eyes
and feel the silk of her hair...
her complaint
complying to my pertinence.
See how the part is crooked in the back?
There are no straight lines in a memory,
but I swear there is a scar
where her blue eyes lingered
true & straight while braving the brush.
Watch me, she says to my memory.
I can make my hair dance.
She turns around and then again,
caught in the air of time...
her hair, a rope or a bridge,
to climb
to her pugnacious smile.




~Karen


18 old applause
