JESS MYNES
The Stubborn Heart on its man-made hill, serene as a Greek temple tonight is proud, even the casual visitor is alive, withdrawn and waiting, the spider-cranes, endowed silver flashes contrasting the silence sideburns that would not disgrace a Western desperado completely dressed and ready to answer wartime, the mulatto barber labors an hour, this spray of bougainvillea in the clean morning light, like meat just off the butcher’s hook from muskmelon to red cabbage and Rebel cotton pausing, fears justified against how to make the high-hip amputation, an invitation to rock the bullet in his head, last clot hindering vision, logic escaping the surface of the dazed moment, murderous glow, that unexpected charge
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