I was reading a book of poetry...lovers were dying. She rode by, looking like a young lady from Mayberry R.F.D., long wavy brown hair tied neat with a blood red bow. Beach cruiser bike, not the usual pimped out affair of my urban stretch. As she passed, I saw her tattoo...similar to the one above but the beak facing left, beginning at the corner of her left eye and fanning out across her cheek and down to the jawline. WHY? I've got nothing against tatts, but fiercely dislike facial tattoos or piercings. I'm too old I guess. No! It's more than that. All that is denatured makes me value what is not. A friend of mine just texted me to say she got three new piercings: nose, lip, and tongue. I want to rip them out.
I sat in the cafe,
book open to the page my lover and I died on
word by word, as cinder we lit there
burning our final holes
My arms worked the surface of my soup
legs scissor spread and snapped
treading water posthumously as she passed...
the two wheels of her
ambling in parade.
Her left eye cried full peacock
feathered tips brushing her chin,
blue-green plumage of courtship
in the un-posturing position of peafowl blush
Saddened by the ruse upon her cheek,
I mourned her skin
fanning embers with fleshy molt
and pressed her artifice
into the fire.