the ugly earring

ug‧ly [uhg-lee] offensive to the sense of beauty; displeasing in appearance

Month: November, 2011

stone’s widow

from: what love comes to: new and selected poems

ruth stone


“You are a lovely link

in the great chain of being

Think how lucky it is to be born.”



play date

No longer riding on the merry-go-round,
I just had to let it go.

the shape of what you lived

You think of lands you journeyed through,
of paintings and a dress once worn
by a woman you never found again.

And suddenly you know: that was enough.
You rise and there appears before you
in all its longings and hesitations
the shape of what you lived.

painting: picasso’s seated nude woman
poem: remembering, rainer maria rilke

a chicken or an egg

“Francisca’s eggs are small, creamy and the yolk is yellowish orange while Bonita’s yolk’s are the color of persimons. I have not yet tasted Bonita’s eggs.  Astrid won’t share those.  She’s addicted to eggs.”

text: beatrice valenzuela’s pretty post eggs
photo: Manuel Carrillo – Girl with Chicken


Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.

i hold your hand,
first born.

this is how you know
i’ve memorized
the length of your fingers. and when
you’re biting your nails again.

she held my hand, too,
bending my fingers upward
at the knuckles.
Perhaps, she thought,
i would be a dancer
instead of the sparrow
that, one day, would flee
her nest.

image: here

love mugs

Billy Al Bengston, cups, 1957 via an ambitious project collapsing

of brown and silver

She pays attention to the hair, not her fingers, and cuts herself
once or twice a day.   Doesn’t notice anymore, just if the blood
starts flowing.   Says, Excuse me, to the customer and walks away
for a band-aid.   Same spot on the middle finger over and over,
raised like a callus.   Also the nicks where she snips between
her fingers, the torn webbing.   Also spider veins on her legs now,
so ugly, though she sits in a chair for half of each cut, rolls around
from side to side.   At night in the winter she sleeps in white
cotton gloves, Neosporin on the cuts, vitamin E, then heavy
lotion.   All night, for weeks, her white hands lie clothed like
those of a young girl going to her first party.   Sleeping alone,
she opens and closes her long scissors and the hair falls under
her hands.   It’s a good living, kind of like an undertaker,
the people keep coming, and the hair, shoulder length, French
twist, braids.   Someone has to cut it.   At the end she whisks
and talcums my neck.   Only then can I bend and see my hair,
how it covers the floor, curls and clippings of brown and silver,
how it shines like a field of scythed hay beneath my feet.

poem: cutting hair by minnie bruce pratt
image: from the kumpfs family archive



images: 1. secret shop 2. thank you, ok