Jeannine Savard
New Little Sister


A little limelight,

knocking back an old Tequila,

she laughs as hard

riding the lines — Hot/cool

Razor grazing.



Nothing stops here. Odd/even

the tide in the distance

takes over

fin, tooth, snorkel, toe-ring — 



Course set becomes the inevitable

gamboge spume.



Island scrub oak reach up

for rapture, a riddle



under the fair facial,

scarlet flush 'accentuals,'

hair pinching the nape.



Days and days. A decision or script

appears — 

                       (A ghost from a western paradise

                       rings a tiny bell, and drops it

                       like a long stemmed maraschino cherry into

                       her dark Manhattan.)



She says "I"                   I could wave at you,



but these stiff crows     in my best orbit



are placing cuffs on me. . .     She wants all



her fanboys & girls  to know

           all apertures are open,  calls you real



real strip-prowlers, A+ star gazers

                       and understands how you have to

love the glow — she more than most.