Yasamin Ghiasi: A Portrait of Her

Fall '10 TOC

She is transparent in striving to drape a
veil of shadows around her bareness. Stanced
awry for the canvas. A brush strokes
to elucidate specifics, turned at the
wrist, and aims to paint her motherless lyric.

She is humored by façade of will. Says
with her own tongue, “I am an unseen
dream of the abstractionist. When I ask
alms on the streets of the waking, you are
the blind one.”

The night cultivates incessant plumes
sprawled out on a row of yellow
chairs. She exists there, not as compartments
nor carousels, but the joie de vivre
soft-cradling her naked-skin.

The morning ushers in high-heels, ringed
fingers, and intrigue at the fatness of a bird.
With bent elbows, she hauls a barrel of
rattling bones and switch-blades
intended to efface the distinctions
of this monstrous anonymity.

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Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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