My piece ‘Treesap’ on FVR today:
‘A measure of Bailey’s,’ and the blue-haired
Barmaid smiles, as steam rushes from the coffee
Machine. Eyes stare back, small glasses squared
And neck fluffed under the swirled bun, sticky
Like a grey Danish, left from clipping dry
On evenings with the clippers and beauty
Compact in the bathroom mirror; dried cacti
On the windowsill. At that bar, I’ll see
Your soul rising with the steam. Sweet and high,
And the ring it left like an eclipse would
Not come off, though I baking-soda-tried.
We stopped scrubbing and drank snowballs outside
In the bright, green garden full of driftwood.
With amber necks like maple tears, we sigh.
Lois E. Linkens