Wednesday, March 12, 2008


Like that flock of white pigeons, oblivious to the glass atrium
in the old garden, smashed now into fine needles, found
by unsuspecting bare feet—
their eyes red droplets
She’ll get inside you
painted nails and a morbid fascination with your own fate
Her blonde stare
draws me in, assesses, dismisses me, insignificant
I have nothing she wants
My impudence swells
She dates cars
and wears animals, I console myself, indignant now,
self-righteous as a saint:
Who made the world her playground?

Rachel Westfall
March 12, 2008


Kyddryn said...

I think I went to school with her. Or was partially raised by her. Or both.

Shade and Sweetwater,

RachelW said...

Yeah, she was in my school too. ;)

Mike Grieco said...

WOW!! She is everywhere i've been too!..But can she kiss?? ;)

RachelW said...

Somehow I doubt it! But I've never gotten close enough to try. ;)

Anne said...

Damn. Well done.