Expedient Means
She looks like a saucy ripening bean, the girl in
her faded fatigues. Traffic blades
beyond the bricked marketplace, festooned with flags and banners,
past the open ruddy throats in the hibiscus, the twisting of some
vine I
don’t know. She looks like creature comfort—just a little
buxom and buttoned
at the center with a red rhinestone, an array of rings. So the body
becomes
a vessel for this emptiness, expedient, open—underneath the
tight soul enclosed—dreamlike in its little amphora, its tortoise
shell.
She looks indelible, her blackened eye undramatic,
factual. A drone as simple
as the locust goes up, the poor lantana shoved out of place by cigarette
butts—
the alleyway flocked by tourists relegated to their last bastion
of picture-taking,
a phosphorescent decay. There’s the clatter of the vacuous:
the batterer
overly familiar to us, his sloe-eyed din, his fingers in the rungs
of her.
These expedient means, bitten blessings, her young face smudged
and iconic
as any downtown billboard.
|