Orient



Yes, it was the ardor, yes,
it was the hair.  The word supine fell
across her chest.  The source
of the very quirky truths
and glimpses we breathe
slipped a pepper and a soft creamy
print into our mouths.
A man in the process of creating himself
is a man alone in a room with lipstick
or a girl gripping
the box that will later contain her
image.  Here, we become
pigmented, acquire color, tangent
the sensual.  You see how wrong you can be. 


 


 


 


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Stephanie Burns lives in Greensboro, NC where she wishes she could say she finds poetry in her cubicle, but mostly she just finds more cubicle.  Her poems have appeared in The Tiny and LUNGFULL!