Lisa Lewis


My curt blue brush fluffs up nap in back,
velveteen to trip a nicked palm, sink in claws
like fall’s field burrs or a cat cocked to go off.
All hands are the wrong hands. The anti-mop
stands for what once was, not sloughed, clipped—
blades’ bravado carried away to glimpse
scalp. My case is closed—snapped shut
to smooth fate of stones that roll, never mind
loop-locks, ribbons parting scissor-fingers.
Blending in’s a slip of wist. I meant to cut it
short, the veil, golden blindfold cowboys
rolled to tumbleweed: this short, indeed.
You see what you’re missing, bristle-blurred,
no invitation to stroke, stoke, or run through.
I have my nerve, now nothing’s left to yank,
only shave in own haste. Driving now
with top down, I’m safe with fast machines.

This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.