Monday, March 3, 2014


There’s a photograph of a girl
I used to know, hanging high
Above my desk
With a small piece of tape.
The setting is a dessert
Lost in dull
Colors of mud and caramel.

Hard to see
Mountains rise up behind.
Two girls resting shoulder to shoulder
Close enough
That if you touched between them
You would get

Close enough
That sometimes
They were only one girl
Before mountains.
Close enough
That the lines
Between them
Blurred hazy in the Arizona sun.

Her hair
Was long then curled tight at the bottom
Like wheatgrass
Soft/ like skin
That was
Light like the sand
They’d laid on
Backs naked
And drunk
During moon-guarded hours.
Like the glow
Of a smile
Full of rotting molars.
Because in decay
She showed her teeth.
Behind stretched pink lips/ and
In decay, she showed her teeth.
Another girl is dark
Beside her
Brown shirt blending
With her hair
Brown shirt blending
In the dirt.
Brown shirt blending
With her friend’s brown shirt
Her brown shirt
Their brown shirt
Of women
Browns of deserts
Dull browns/ like grays
So soft
They cross boundaries.
So soft
They bind.

- Rebecca Najjar

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