Heather Haley

Whore In The Eddy

Gazes up at ballooning clouds as if imagining
frogs, giraffes, Corvettes and barns, as if
Neptune's head has heard her pleas, sent me.

She looks like a mannequin. As if by law of nature,
a stripped woman's body looks like a mannequin
after it floats to the surface in a rainforest
denuded by timber sales. All matter from the depths
is netted by log jams.

She stares at me, cannot see
the pebbles embedded in my knees,
or my face, not so sweet.
No bubbles, just the flatness
of still water. No trace DNA
or hard earned cash, only cool airstreams
of aspen leaves. My grasping hand
takes hers, skin gliding onto my fingers
like a glove. A device. We share features
any porno masticating, regular working stiff
joe wants in his garage
between the red pickup and the Crestliner.

We watch the rim of night, a spiral
arm of stars, their slow light two million
years too late. Naked eyes detect
Orion the hunter, Cassiopeia, the bright knots
of the Double Cluster. Mars appears.
I look the other way, to the North Star.

HEATHER HALEY