by Melinda Noack
Where's the romance
in sheets bereft of color,
& the written word pressed
up against the female hydrangea.
An old sinner once told me
that he named a ship after a woman
called “sister,” and the ship
wasn't even his, but it was Isabella.
Always parting the eyelids
of the sea, always strewing blue flags
against its body. “But red is not
the same thing as beautiful” &
ask anyone, and they will warn you
not to lull a woman to sleep, because
when she wakes up, she will
grind her teeth to cinders. She
will add too much turmeric to soup,
answer every fifth call with a smirk
& leave all her roman numerals
in a heap. Ah, but you will love
it in the awfullest of ways.
Melinda Noack is a haphazard editor, writer of odds and ends, Russian language enthusiast, and future master accordionist. Play her a major radio hit from the 90s and she’ll swoon.
Back to Poetry.
Back to Issue 6.
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