VelvetA Poem by h d e rushinthe last I saw of it was in Dad's casket, plush below his head they shaved, piled flat and puckered his lips to smile with plastic filler and velum. Where has all the velvet of the world gone? The close, furry hides of animals lone gone on to hibernation, or the faux smoothing tapestry of single threads on horned beasts living off vegetation high on cliffs, in books with pictures close to the bottom of the shelf in the downtown library. I had a velvet hat I wore often after "The Mack" when I was figuratively trying to escape this image of my tongue touching the roof of my mouth. But the tiger on the black background of the paintings on my bedroom wall, or the dangling dice from the rear view mirror in uncles Ford Galaxie 500/ anything by means of something else but not what we think of when the trees bend low and the jungles are deforested and the icebergs melt to sonance like Good Humor, Strawberry Short Cakes. Or Anything furthest from our faces but soft, smooth pink-piled and lost.
© 2021 h d e rushin |
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