Hair not quite long enough.
Hair not quite long enough.

Faberge screams echo in

Silk-shaded halls in the

Broken palace that sits upon

The hill prone to mud slides

When torrents befall it.

Pop music and barbarous taunts

Filled her days and blinded

Rusted nails sewn to her hands,

Belted waist constricts

Appetites unnatural

As she waltzes off-beat

Through the corridors.

Halcyon storms tearing benches

That marked nothing that

Could be marked

Except in astronomer’s books

And charts of stars

Found in the shimmer

Of her coal-colored locks.

Sleeves too long to sieve

Clumps of flour and ego

That cannot rise because

The chef was too poor to buy

Yeast for his mix,

Crafting small bricks

Of dough and necessity

To construct his masonic track.

She bleeds from her eyes

Milk left to sour in silver buckets

Out by the wooden porch

While ice idyllically stabs

The earth from which

It never came,

Not that it was aware of.

Her breath smells of

Musty books from forgotten

Shelves in a disheveled library;

Her exhalations betray her

Learned stature and blindfolds

A sense that everything is

Right for what it’s worth

Given the mild seizures

Brought on by nightmare steeds.

Frozen evenings sing along

With pale machinations of

Men tied with strings to

Clock hands that tell no time,

That hold no hearts,

That trump no suits or suitors,

All on the face that reflects

That starved gaze

Of the girl in the hall with

Ribbons tied to her feet.

Composed 07/10/2012

Author’s Note: My host sister was an interesting person. She had the longest hair I think I’ve ever seen. It went all the way down to her ankles. Watching her try to wash it was always harrowing. She wasn’t shy, but she also wasn’t talkative. Her life was always busy with housework, unlike her brother, who spent the mornings and afternoons running around town with his friends. I wish my Mongolian had been better, so I could have asked her opinions about life in the countryside. Alas.

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