Storytelling
Her teeth were like moving maize kernels—something which kept his palm flush against the edge of the broad door, letting warm air drift out to a nose whose rings sprouted from skin ready to cough a bolus of dirt onto his shoes; her tale however, clean, a helix of reasons that furiously wound to reach that yes or no finish line. Revised from past failures, it was sharp now and she spun it like Homer—diligent crescendos and an emphasis on a starved windswept figure who braced eyes on vacant horizons and begged for home. “…sleep here tonight?” and he heard little watching the up-down of teeth wedded to plaque—abscessed and rude, some hypnotic rot, her chin bobbing toward a threadbare sweater; The End was moments away, but when she noticed that he hadn’t listened she vowed to recommence, this time declaring that dawn had rose-red fingers, and that she feared it.
Paul French is a student and writer of poetry currently enrolled at New Mexico State University. He is an admirer of Tony Hoagland, Sheila Black and Patty Seyburn. His poetry has been featured in Din Magazine. He hopes you’ll enjoy his work.
