Jul/Aug 2001  •   Poetry  •   Special Feature


by Tara Brever


She's growing some breasts
that pack like stolen meat
beneath her t-shirts,
that decoy as desire,
that stumble and stomp
a blush-bruise into her cheek.

She's stopping some traffic
on her walks to the graveyard,
with her tan shoulders blaring
those fresh freckles,
like espresso sprinkled
tepid as last night's rain.

She's learning some magic
from her deck of cards;
but the sage spreads
of gypsies always land
parallel to God
and all His swords.

She's taking some time
to work on her stories-the ones
she tells her mother as they scour
the tombstones for surnames,
the ones with stale breath
that happened to a friend and never to her,
the ones that stutter and crack
like rifles just out of sight.

She's crafting some spells
to stop the uneasy solo
of her shaking,
trying to find some green
whisper of a cure
to breathe deep
when cupfuls of moon
spill sticky on her skin.

She's finding some home
inside her bones, the dancing
of nails into her skin,
but it's a bad place come eight,
absent of light; it's a bad dusk
when she notices the gates
and that they've rusted shut.