Tuesday, May 21, 2013


From where I sit I can see just inside his shirt collar.

The pressed cotton corners graze his cleanly shaved chin when he tilts his head to read his newspaper.

I imagine the texture of newsprint against his fingers, and stop to notice mine. I see black ink on my fingers too and it makes me shiver.

Inside his collar I see a silver chain – not chain really, it’s one of those silver chords, made up of little balls of metal, like the kind you slip onto luggage handles and fasten by snapping one of the balls into a groove, a pinched piece of metal. 

How to describe this?


It’s the kind of chain you see on dog tags. Army.  Military tags, not pet dogs.
Well I guess pet dogs too.


I see the chain inside his shirt collar, against his smooth skin and I think of his flesh against the metal,

and then I think of flesh against metal all over the world,

and newsprint on fingers and shivers and collars tight around necks, shaved and unshaved,

and metal scraping and squeezed, dented and misshapen for any number of reasons, by any number of forces,

and blackened skin and fingertips,

all over the world. 


  1. I have always been attracted to those chains for some reason. I think I like the click when you fasten it. I'd like a chandelier made of those metal beads. Or something.
    Please never stop writing!

  2. @hiphophippie.com

    i can see you making the most marvelous metal chandelier. agree with the click. so comforting, sturdy. i will never stop writing if you never stop writing. love you woman.