—the scent she coveted even more than Chanel No. 5; more than clouds of dusting powder applied with a feathery pink pouf. Her rituals of cold cream, the tissue imprint from lips shaded with coral; how she made him wait in the car until she declared herself ready. Where she learned her own lessons in deportment, I'm not sure; but I can understand her drive to reach a different station than the one she was given at birth. Day after day on her father's farm: heat and bitter melons, animals flicking their tails. Talent isn't enough, she'd lecture me; you have to practice until it feels natural. Spine straight, alert to opportunity.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
