Memory of the Tousled-Haired Girl| filed under: Poem, Poetry
In March only the smokers stood outside on the street where the party was allowed to spill.
With cigarette or without, smoke rose from the lips. I don't remember her smoking, but I remember the touseled-haired girl who read poetry from a cloth bound book.
She was the lover of an effeminate man who loved beautiful books more than beautiful women.
And possibly she loved words more than her lover for she used the tip of her tongue to lick them into the air, to press them into microphone.
It was the hair I noticed first. Soft waves in ringlets around the soft face with red lips and tiny features.
But then everything came into place and I blushed away from this girl with the bluejeans cinched at the waist, the heavy doctor martins and the sweater tops, flattering to the grace of the arch.©1998 Chris Abraham