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2 Poems by Patricia Wellingham-Jones |
MRS. COYOTE Town knows her as Mrs. Coyote. Tall and lean, she lopes through Gold Rush Country in tawny sweaters with earth stained pants, her sharp nose twitching in thought. Grieved by the western habit of draping coyote carcasses over fence posts, unconvinced their marauding brothers get the hint, her main concern is the wildness in their cells. She sees these untamed eyes staring out of poets. Poets, who must be left undisturbed to record the unwritten songs that rustle dry grass, whip treetops into leaf storms, frenzy incoming tides. Who express the wildness in cells stifled long. HORMONE STEW a gathering of women Exotic brew colors - pale, rose to chocolate Spice of long limb, soft breast hand reaching to cup air carry to lips to savor Female swirl of herbal shampoo around toes chilly at dawn Steam-mingled morning breath with Guatemalan coffee White hair cropped short yet sparks blaze from touched fingers curved spine tender in blue gaze Armpit hairs sweat into shirts worn thin tangle in pubic threads Evening crotches trapped in jeans jam against wood chairs lift scent to rafter Watch-dog heaven
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