Oyster Boy Review 21  
  Poetry Annual 2014
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» Levee 67


From the Mattress on the Floor Under the Flaming Sky Photos

Lyn Lifshin

rain blurs moon
and stars, eyes dark
as licorice like water
in an old mine. A
stranger reading
Lorca in Spanish on
the phone. Later my
hands smelled like
him, cinnamon
skin. The dog barked
thru damp sheets.
I got wet, fingers
on my skin. "you all
horned up," whispering.
If I'd thought
twice I wouldn't
have in my leather
skirt and high
heels, pink "what
are those,
barrettes?" He
asked pulling rose
clips from my hair.
"And your scent," he was
pressing the strangest
flowers, pulled
my hair, tilted
forsythia dripping like
my hair, I fell out
of what held me

. . .