Jannine Horsford

Three Poems


That girl with that face
and from that part of the world.

Who commits daily assaults against ‘th’
yet respects every syllable
in ‘strawberry’.

With that shape and heft and
magnitude of backside.

Got an arse on ‘er that rolls like the moors.

At The Grove she guides the mop
across the floor
like her Rastafarian lover.

The nerve: knocking on our doors
with hot things like some bloody Gypsy.

Gypsy she be in that oversized coat,
in them ugly boots and
a pair of socks up to th’ knee.

I wonder: how do they tell ‘em
one from t’other?

If you get close you’ll see
there’s a tiger
that leaps from her eyes.

Speaking of close, this is a long distance
from Birming’um.

Good God, she talks and touches
talks and touches: forever
slapping our knees, patting us
on the arm.

Then walks through our town
with something that smells
too much like longing.

What does one do
What does one do
about such
a person?



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