David Hickman

Indian Female Dancer/ Hannah Hoch

If , with head tossed back,

I see through a creamy, half closed eye

you, tall friend, unimaginable mirror,

then nothing is settled, and the

crown of forks and knives

that has adorned my head

since the day of your first smile

announces its domestic turn

in litanies of a secret sorrow.

And though I would like to claim

that I cannot be owned,

It is a fantasy

that leaves me

with a woodenness

that is nearly half my head.

A singular madness

in the presence of so many dead,

who will never know the turn

from a shudder

to discernment