Portrait with Bobby Pins
Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
She does this thing with bobby pins—
holds three between her lips
like small dark fish
while her hands work the architecture
of her hair
with an engineer's precision
and a sculptor's disregard for the clock.
I could tell you about her eyes.
I won't. You'd expect that.
Instead: the way she argues
with the crossword,
out loud, as if six across
owes her an explanation.
The way she falls asleep mid-sentence
and denies it absolutely.
The way she keeps a list
of every dog she's met,
with descriptions:
'distinguished,' 'anxious,' 'would betray you for a chip.'
This is the woman.
Not the sum of light on cheekbone,
not the catalogue of feature,
but the bobby pins,
the crossword,
the list of dogs she's loved.
These are the things I'll remember
when I'm old and the light
has changed.
139 words · 28 lines · Free Verse