1977

She wears New World shoes with Old World dresses, combs her hair with a Chinese brush, wears Parisienne eye shadow on days when it drizzles, and adds cassis to her African tea.

She hums Russian love songs with lips lined in Portugese, writes left-handed poetry with ink brewed in Egypt.

And when she sleeps, it is between Eskimo icesheets, fragile in pajamas of raw Cuban cigar.

Dance with her the Mongolian merengue, and you will dream Tierra del Fuego under tiny Tunisian stars.

The world writes her signature and her love crosses borders.

Just remember your passport if you want to go home.

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2 thoughts on “1977

  1. Very nice post. I just stumbled upon your blog
    and wished to say that I’ve really enjoyed surfing around your blog posts.

    In any case I’ll be subscribing to your rss feed and I hope
    you write again soon!

    1. Why, thank you for the kind words. I hope to write again soon also. But I am working on a novel right now and don’t always get much of a chance to work on poetry.

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