Poem: The Soloist

glossy purple lips pluck
drooping nylon strings
hooked into the muddy gourd  

             before we made a doll out of her skin
      we asked her to extract pulp & seeds
      on the staircase where our tea
      over-steeped, turned bitter
                     we don't recall her name
she's kissing our song

Written in response to Big Tent Poetry’s Monday Prompt for 11 October 2010
Big Tent Poetry

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