.................................
joan of arc
.................................

peter's hands on the table
once pawed the pink claw between her legs.

but tonight

after asparagus steaming
phone kissing in french -

she, the denim boy,
is too killed to dress, too tall
for onward motion.

she fears the messing of the air.

with bicep winds roof-dining,
she thinks transparent -

pubic girls paper traced
in melon against the sun.

while paul in his cheekbones
eats
and dreams that all blondes please be long,

she feels lost in her jaw,
lipless for talk of
work and cars and drinking.

oh joan of arc
wears black this evening
in soil electric feet -

pins the bandage of the table,
unlistening

to peter solid speak.

.................................
Helen Walne
.................................

 
Copyright © Helen Walne
May 1996

...a poem in this room by Richard Fein...
...on the wall -- my private wall...
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