Sue Carnahan


red-pink rhubarb stalks like

split halves of a false architectural column
roped to the bed of a smoking yellow
Chevy and sagging a bit like

rubber spatulas you left in the pan after flipping
fried eggs in bacon fat—

two pupils moored in a pair of
silky, purplish irises
rimmed by a spiky fence a little like

lashes significantly thicker with mascara

return to SHAMPOO 26