Magenta Moment

The mirror stares back awaiting my next deception.
It knows me, a shammer, better than the angel it doesn’t.
Like Kenny Rogers' gambler, I know when to hold back,
when to fold, but I cannot not walk away, cannot run.
The mirror stares back admiring the grip in my eyes.
I have counted my money, saved it longer than forever.
I refuse to draw my last air in my sleep for the love
of that color in the confines of a borrowed room.
Dark on dark, we both shimmer on planned outing.
We are an exhibit in the High Museum of Art,
the artistic architect pouring curved stratus, imagined
he knew my held breath, how it would layer on me,
dark on dark. We both simmer in the mirror.
But the dress is having a moment here. 

--Frances Ohanenye

Cultural convergence


--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.

His Money—an adaptation*

His nails are yellow and bitten back
yellow, unhappiness drooping
bitten back, his frightened hunger.
She doesn’t like him, and he could feel
suspicion pouring out of the lacquered odor
of hairspray. Neither war nor peace offers
the gust of self he needs.
The girl, her palate is dry like a potsherd
and eyes a bulging red air of intimidation
seem suddenly unsure of the power she grabbed.
The slap of misfortune reels him, bounces
on her authority and pounces.
Her irises burn him warning his pupils.
They retract, his frankness charge 
after the tiger she sent after him.
His frankness leaves her holding
an apple exposed to the core.

--Frances Ohanenye

--Cultural Collision

*Adapted from poem of the same title by Ted Kooser

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.