By: Adel Clifton

Sometimes I feel that these sheets of paper

frame the door that separates me from

her- warm-colored-woman world

where lines of poetry are long

wrought with imagery

Where lady moons and peach-headed girls

drink coffee in red lipstick

Dripping the juice of professor affair

With dry paper cigarettes in their mouths

I am but a fox

nestled in her den

dreaming of the smell of sun-dried boats

and crop tops

still apologetic of her sexuality

Minnows, they keep saying,

are strength and rebellion

But my pen tastes only salt water in a

fishless bowl

Now I just read old feminist manifestos

smelling the worn paper wisdom

I shall try to learn French in order

to fit in

Write poems that are complicated

Braid my hair with coffee filters and

opiate daffodils

Buy a hat

I know it is not all good

And I know I will be there before

I find the key

For now, though, I remember pale pink

and leather boots