Pictures of Gullfoss 

she wants to write
a poem
called why I hate jazz

she will write a poem called
why I can’t write
a poem called
why I hate jazz

her hair is
like a waterfall
no, let’s say

a cascade of locks
flows over her shoulders
down her back

spills onto a bed
of black lava rocks
scratch that

her hair is
a waterfall
of whites and grays
before they turn blue

a rush of the unfrozen
cannot shake late winter’s
thick coat of rime
covering the gorge

the boy who crosses
Hvítá to follow his love
before the higher hell track begins
arrives too soon

if only the boy
who plays trombone had asked
if only he had listened
to her answer

a tooth protruding
from the side
of a mountain
won’t erode the view

it’s not about jazz at all
it’s her body she has needed

to stop hating
the way she has learned
to love the best

it was so cold storytellers
on either side
of that seam known as
the Mid-Atlantic Ridge

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4 thoughts on “Pictures of Gullfoss 

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