From Nerve Cowboy #23 Spring 2007

 

 

LIPS IS ONE OF THEM

 

Lana Hechtman Ayers

 

We meet under the stairs

beside the broken-down washer.

 

You whisper,

the wind has eight names,

 

and tell me only one before

unhooking the stars of my bra.

 

Afterward, I beg for

the other seven.

 

Tomorrow, you call,

going up the stairs,

 

but by then,

the washer will be fixed.

 

 

 

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