The girl darkens under the Jersey shore
boardwalk, black leather, hair
braiding her to the pillar,
where this promise is sprayed.
The Ferris wheel circles
the moon, the boardwalk
circles the earth.
A camera captures
her defiant acquiescence.
She reads a novel
about how her mouth
is pink cotton candy.
A man’s tissue-
paper-thin breath trembles
in expensive moonlight.
His shirt, luminous
as wind, swirls a starlit
sky, she swallowing
a mouthful of it.
Tail-finned
cars speed toward Atlantic
foam. Salt bruises
her tongue. The season
is over. The girl’s
smile is a last carousel ride,
wood horses distorted
in mirrors. She’d translate
her body back into its own
language, if only she could.
IF THE GIRL NEVER LEARNS
Poems
By Sue William Silverman
Brick Mantel Books. $14.95.
Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Purchase on Bookshop (which supports independent bookstores and Survivor Lit) or anywhere books are sold.
