Stone
Garden
Lara writes her name in mascara,
while my half smoked Camel burns the sill.
Carnival sounds sift through her fingers,
and ashes sleep in the crease of her sweater.
We complete the prayer in two verses,
turn our faces toward the window.
Cars hide in crepe paper layers
of Wabasha Avenue; headlights
punch my nerves. Our neighbors
walk on stilts, peer faceless
at pictures hanging over ivory sidewalks
like abbreviated billboards.
Lara's garden stands like a statue,
corollas sedate the ground;
she gathers them to later
plait her hair.
Copyright © 2002 Alex Stolis