Frankenhoff Review

  

  

  

  
The sounds of prayer more than music say
nothing of horoscopes that feel like a red-moon
but always show me her cheekbones
and the clichéd way she crinkles
her nose. I know what she looks like

naked; I know what she looks like impatient;
when I think of her I don’t picture her naked.

I see her, hands in her pockets
trying to hide their tacit grace, elbows
away from her sides,
looking down at the ground
(Will poets never look up?)
fingering a pebble with
her toe, lips pursed to imply
she never smiles, just before
that smile unfolds her face.

I see her, when I think
of her, in the moments
before she sees me.