Morning Portrait, 8800′

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Morning Portrait, 8800′

Strong, slight sundressed girl, all sinew, all arms and legs,
steps from the den of  cool last night, sweat and woodsmoke,
dawnlit, shoeless, wincing into sub-alpine August;
She squints, fidgits, runs fingers through thick twists,
tangles of gold from straw and
squares rope over bone shoulders towards the east.

She is twenty-three years old, a woman rubbing sleep from her eyes,
calming morning medusa-strands with a plain ragged ribbon.

She wears freckles, no paint:
No hips to speak of, can’t do without a belt;
a thumb to forefinger encircles her wrist,
you can read her collarbone from a mile off.
Yet those shoulders lugged sixty pounds,
twig figure legs, quick on the slopes,
laughed at switchbacks, through scratching, fragrant sagebrush,
gold splash mules ears, lodgepole, aspen,
and rock to get up here.

She can work
the red handled pump
with one slim arm,
mumbling that
strength is all angles.

she bends to caress blue columbine,
straightens, shuffles, wrinkles toes in dirt and pebbles.
She grins,
bats an eyelash, strikes a blue tip on the door jamb,
sweeping arc to spark to flame,
a hand cuppped against the breeze,
lights her cigarette.

Still a work in progress, I did about 17 drafts of this back in the day, with at least one more to come.  Probably many more.

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About JunkChuck

Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.
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One Response to Morning Portrait, 8800′

  1. I of July says:

    so refined… good work

    Like

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