Poetry by Matthew Nolan

May 4, 2006 by


She paints her face like a clown
and slices her wrists like plucking violin strings.
Her classic look and bleach sprouts of hair frame the
sagging face which once was glossy high cheekbones
bobbing below the waist of movie star leading men,
glamour of pills and acidic sex
that smears the black mascara down the rosy sags
under her cheekbones,
the cheekbones that posed high for the camera
now point to hell
beside huge mumbling red lips that flick bread crumbs
when talking about old cars, class reunions,
and her wealthy son who is making love to the world,
suburb plot, grass square,
his mother in a wheelchair
with dark red lines of crusty blood wrapping her wrist,
embedded among the softer colors of pink,
like the soft pink blush she put on her cheekbones the
night she made love and conceived the
rotten bag of apples that brown so much

Copyright 2004 Matthew Nolan

To view more excerpts or to order Matthew Nolan’s book of poetry, prose, and journals titled Crumpled Paper Dolls: A New Orleans Poet please visit your local New Orleans bookstore or visit online at http://MatthewNolan.net

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