severe

By way of illustration, a storm, a hairdo, a punishment,

or the face of my great-aunt in the failing memory

of the few who can snap her cool features into place.

Overheard usage: The old maid, hair cropped unfashionably short

in mannish trousers, how else to describe her but severe.

An edge?

Or panache?

                                   Like Joan of Arc suited to ride,

her chain mail shimmering, iridescent as a tarpon

lunging from an angler’s tackle, a hook dangling

by a wire.

Is it genetic?

The clean line of my jaw in the blue porch light.

What if I nick your finger, punish you like

a paper cut, or kiss you with desire’s accuracy,

I mean, the way a skater’s blade etching a figure eight

kisses the ice?

Have I taken you too far?

As if to be butch is to be made of mythical perimeters,

and not the sky revealing itself between storms

in sudden naked flashes.

I found my great aunt’s face in a grainy yearbook photo,

absent of restraint, a playful eyebrow raised, a smile so

genteel and at her ear, a blonde helix, stray curl almost

too exceptionally soft for sight.