Lure
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It’s the old dilemma. Nude, we’re all

the same, diminished & fetal.
(A tern fell out of the sky. I made
an imprint in the lining of my dress.)

Do nights have pleats? I was the rifler

between them. Some hands
turn up so pale they’re really thistles . . .
There’s no irony there (anise).

No changing of the guard in Navajo White.

Just our bodies, smart
with complications. And our mouths;
pink halos of effort

in the black apparatus of night.

by Louise Mathias, from Lark Apprentice, New Issues Poetry & Prose
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