LOVE POEM FOR A PANHANDLER

The ache of me stands like a sunlit dust shape
in a doorway of Jerome, that ghost town with its
gold heart bleeding underneath the bars
and girls whose dances make their shirts
of flannel shine, unbuttoned to the breastbone
where they carry their winters, their soup pots
and lockets, their broad bones of light.
I sit with my buffalo love on this mountain,
my fences too small to contain the stampede.


Stacey Fruits
STACEY FRUITS is a writer and photographer living in Tucson, Arizona, where the otherworldly late-afternoon light washes down the canyon walls and everyone is standing on the sun's doorstep, casting a fleeting, wriggling shadow of inspiration over her lens, or spilling it onto any available page. Her poetry publication credits include Conspire, Stirring, Sun Oasis, and Friends of Arcadia. This is her first photography publication. More of her work can be seen at her website.
TAR
WHEN MY STOMACH SPEAKS TO ME IN SPANISH

I want the Atomic Grill with chili pepper tongues,
stuttering students and love that is not meant to be.

I want to see your face tattooed in shadow by
the blue-eyed vines that nod and ask for water.

Breakfast is another word for early morning light
piled high on terra cotta plates with sprigs of lust

and fresh mint carried down from the Pueblos.
The grower's daughter has a name I can't pronounce,

and how I want the swish of her skirts when I run out to
meet you, your elbows in their usual groove on the table.


Stacey Fruits
Whip Not Wielded by Stacey Fruits
"Pinata Line" by Stacey Fruits
© Stacey Fruits
© Stacey Fruits