It’s agosto, and Baja California norte
remains cool, overcast, chilly;
day, and the green khaki of cold waves
frays into tangles of foam and reweaves.
Rust has made Bargello patterns on her screen,
a pressed metal screen with a dead-bolt, on her,
rust riding her thighs and thatching hip sockets
and small caves sheltered by patellae where
hieroglyphics of flings tell, and tell again
in rust-woven webs of mambos
she’s danced.  The tides see her through,
relentless as sheep bearing fleece
no matter how seasonally shorn—
naked in washes of green seas of leas,
spinners in huts sweating yarns
for noviembre’s socks.  She pauses, not lost,
not creaking, nor oiled, outside a shop
selling adornments for ears
of septiembre, octubre, perhaps
even spring, a mambo stirring, flaking
rust, yet stirring, and has the shopkeeper
shoot studs through the lobes of her ears. 

First read? I adore this Lynn, find if very moving and beautiful. Do I know why? Not really, not yet. Tom

well.
i'll be doggoned.

Love those images of rust and stainless steel against each other. Like Tom said, adorable.

well.  i'll be doggoned again.  with two early fans of this write, perhaps I should move to Submit? 

thanks, doris.  very pleased you liked the juxtaposition of those metals.  i'm hopeful "she" comes across as a mix of age and yet youthful aspirations, too.

Indeed she does convey the sense that time and age are as relative as relativity.

I'd say so.

Love how those final two lines seem to connect the N permanently to her surroundings.

I love this because it's simply beautiful, all the difference in language, and because 'she' has so much spunk.  Love that.

Beautiful, Lynn.

cheryl

Echo all delights in this.

milner

Tom and Doris, thanks for returning to this.  Smiles from me to you.

Lavonne -- I hadn't thought about that, but, Yes.  Can see it now.

SL -- you give me food for thought.  Will think on it some more, but someway or another the stainless stud seems to invite a masculine tone to the title.  Still, there might be some way to work around that.  Appreciate your thoughts all the same.

C -- I'm glad you enjoyed; hoped you might. 

Milner -- :)  [I'm wondering what you might think about new one, Her Quinceañera, posted a minute ago.  I do so love watching these celebrations I happen upon.]

thanks, everyone.

ld

ld

always a pleasure -- thanks, sl

The way you meld the inanimate and human is so good, Lynn, bringing both alive so vividly and forcefully. Sending this to Picks. Tom

Thank you!  A friend down here who walks the boulevard with me each day [oh, but that does sound a little risque, doesn't it?] asked me what all the rust was about, explaining she was a quite 'literal' reader.  I answered, 'erosion, age, you know' -- and she got it.  So I'm especially grateful all this flaking works for you and others here.  Again, thanks!

Rereading her with pleasure, Lynn, and wonder about cutting two words:

It’s agosto, and Baja California norte
remains cool, overcast, chilly;
day, and the green khaki of cold waves
frays into tangles of foam and reweaves.
Rust has made Bargello patterns on her screen,
a pressed metal screen with a dead-bolt, on her,
rust riding her thighs and thatching hip sockets
and small caves sheltered by patellae where
hieroglyphics of flings tell, and tell again
in rust-woven webs of mambos
she’s danced.  The tides see her through,
relentless as sheep bearing fleece
no matter how seasonally shorn—
naked in washes of green seas of leas,
spinners in huts sweating yarns
for noviembre’s socks.  She pauses, not lost,
not creaking, nor oiled, outside a shop
selling adornments for ears
of septiembre, octubre, perhaps
even spring, a mambo stirring, flaking
rust, yet stirring, and has the shopkeeper
shoot studs through the lobes of her ears.

in spite of the repetition of rust, I envision a young spirit here...
much enjoyed, Lynn


Stella

stella!  i missed your comment until now.  thank you!