She smiles and laughs and thinks and talks
of what she thought. Her hair shines bright red
then black. Her blue nails chip. Her nose ring
traps silvery moonshine. At home she makes
cupcakes for her daughter who insists the cakes
be in cups. She ponders how the man stands.
She says, I like the way you make me think.
Before she moves one leg across its twin
where he lies on the mat, she says she should
remove her ring, and does, then puts it on
again. She finds a lower register
to speak of politics. This town’s as ill
as he. Will his body escape its cage?
She says, I’m a rare bird! Peacock! he cries.
(4 December 2012)
copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander