October 14, 2009


Ansel Adams

past adobe,
deep behind tumbleweed
someone shuts off a
radio, as if news
of war would come

over the sage, slither thru
dust and locusts.
Under a pale moon
crosses gleam,
in streaked light

a young girl unbuttons
a hand-me-down
blouse, lets it
fall to the linoleum,
thinks of her brother
crawling on his belly
in the South Pacific

Her breasts swell, her
hair smells of pinyon
and agave

She hears her father playing
banjo on the front porch,
thinks of her mother’s
leathery skin, lank hair,
swears it won’t always be
like this: nights with

nothing but the wind
in the mesquite,
vows to escape, make it
to a place where there is more
than sky and mountains,

where women dress in high heels
and smell of roses like in
movie magazines

maybe get all the way to

by Lyn Lifshin

*Lyn's website: http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm


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