Planes That I am in Do Not Crash

/, Blesok no. 31/Planes That I am in Do Not Crash

Planes That I am in Do Not Crash

Sophie B. Hawkins
Toward Lethe
Window Box
Planes That I am in Do Not Crash
First, Inferno (i).

Ear against the boom box
I wait for her word to exalt me

give meaning to the things I do
to shine for you – the pomade

even olive oil couldn’t remedy,
the constant braiding and rebraiding

of the curling tail (payos?) you left
when the rest of your head was shaved,

the Lady Slipper (protected by law)
I plucked for you, bodies stripped

of all but pencil and pink
you embodied in my hands

running over my skin,
forehead; cheek.

Her song didn’t mention her
coveting a girl, exactly. In fact

she slurred the word
so I had to rewind

a few times to hear it clear
but then I pictured a Tootsie

Pop of which you were the center
and I started counting licks.

AuthorMelissa Fondakowski
2018-08-21T17:23:32+00:00 March 1st, 2003|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 31|0 Comments