Issue 9 :: Summer 2007 
Avatar Review

Farrah Sarafa

Paris in the Day

The cheeks and arms of buildings, their sides
melt into one
joining hands in the sun.

Long, smooth, they line Parisian streets
as a token
architect unbroken.

Details of balcony rails curve, twist
croissants to scratch
the surface and to match

finger-nails that swirl, twirl heads upside
down to a smile
and to brow sculpture tile

shaped to resemble woman’s earrings;
yet they are stone,

fixing, jewelling the tall building.
Memory, this,
admiration, Paris.

Echoes of Scott Fitzgerld, Man Ray
dance, rise and stay
with the hope that I may

drink from the mug that made Sartre play
with words and use

coffee's romantic muse;

with the hope that some early Tuesday
may save me then
from anti-loving men

who whistle when
they want to penetrate young girls.

I proceed to Luxembourg gardens
to lie on grass.
Selves transparent like glass,

backs against trees—children on their knees,
orange juice, baguettes—
old smelt cheese, cigarettes—

all eyes focus on the new couple.
Her bright red dress,
blond hair, effortlessness,

she is the star. Hands active, (distressed?)
hold, pull the head
of him she hopes to wed.

Nourishment, she speaks little and sways,
kneading her hands
finger-fiddle then stands

to satisfy demands all the way
while he sits, stares
absorbed by her deep airs.

He is honest, expressive, we lie
envying youth—
romance, bright cherry truth

Ovidian dance, Daphnae’s chance,
loving embrace
he smokes, unsteady pace

discovering that he could never
pleasure sweet her
like fresh berry liqueur

in cups of spring yogurt. Here where dead
artists whisper
seeking to make crisper

their identity—perplexity.
Garden couple
love—delicate, supple

memory. I sit I document
vision, sorrow
to spice the dullness of tomorrow.

Beach Still

Making stones move with my desire
Sharpened with The Analects I stare
Bare naked into the sunlit flare,
Beach fire

Cold like the grey stone I wish to clear
From a sandy space for sitting still
They transform into ice cubes to fill
Breasts fear

Entrapped by the material lenses
(Metallic) fences back on the shore
Away from beauty, all crime, black war

Reatreating to melody, to words
Here, to ocean waves caressing hair
I become of the milky need to stare
At the birds.

Govinda honest, unleashed spectrum
Soaring smoothly into soft skin
Penetrating object addiction
I am a wild plum.


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