← v12n2, Fall 2013Poetry · 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.
