Hunger
Here,
where the black white shadows
pond and melt
her dress
flutters around the
pronounced scimitar
of her neck line.
Eyes whisper
fr-ig-id
with a syllabically thick accent
as if cold were a ham-fisted lug
emerging from the
yawning dark mouth
of the cabin behind her
pressing his hands
with the grip
of a dying man
bracing his last breath
with each
light blue,
half moon
fingernail.
Copyright © Jennifer Brooks | Year Posted 2005
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