← v12n2, Fall 2013
Poetry · Volume 12, Number 2

We fear the undulant

the uterine wave, the forlorn sway

of ships leaving harbor

of curls. Whose curls? God’s.

Sky-wide, luxuriant as the mane

of a buffalo. Father’s, spread out

like a girl’s bouquet on his deathbed

pillow. Or the indigo whorls

of a deific junkie alone in a shadowy

room, swooning into the arms

of euphoric death, needle

still twanging in the vein

like the fletching at the base

of an arrow. I fear the flickering

of film school movies on the cave

wall. There I am, bad actress

wearing salt-white gloves,

playing a girl who fears undulant

beauty, undulant love.