Oct/Nov 2001 Poetry Special Feature


by Julie King

Art by Bob Dornborg



She wasn't the only hazel-eyed beauty
in town. Oh, but she could fake it
with the British accent she had perfected
before she arrived in Husher, a million
midnights ago, in a '76 El Camino,
its primer splattered with red mud
from where she came. She knew enough
about scones and Princess Diana
and beheadings of queens to carry
on a convincing conversation over
a Pabst at the Husher Grill.

And all the bearded men gripping their pool
cues like something was gonna snap
listened over Haggard to the tinkling
of her voice that somehow brought
to mind them blown-glass unicorns
and such their wives kept on shelves
out of their burly reaches. But she talked
to them so they bought her beer after beer,
and as she swung that seamed-stockinged leg,
they thought of wars they'd never fought
and other countries they'd never been
and air raid sirens they'd never heard, but
it didn't matter because they had England
right here at the Husher Grill, and she was
the only hazel-eyed beauty they'd ever know.


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