Greg by Catherine Simpson
His smile reminded me of statuettes of the Virgin Mary--
That generous, that distant.
There was something Madonna-like in the
Shape of his eyelids.
I wondered if his likeness could adorn small chapels,
Gardens, the necklaces of girls ascending brick steps
In short white dresses for their first communion.
I wondered if when he left a room,
There wasn’t the smell of roses.
Catherine Simpson is a cellist who lives in Santa Barbara. She has been previously published in the Big River Poetry Review, Right Hand Pointing, Spectrum, Step Away Magazine, and Into the Teeth of the Wind.
His smile reminded me of statuettes of the Virgin Mary--
That generous, that distant.
There was something Madonna-like in the
Shape of his eyelids.
I wondered if his likeness could adorn small chapels,
Gardens, the necklaces of girls ascending brick steps
In short white dresses for their first communion.
I wondered if when he left a room,
There wasn’t the smell of roses.
Catherine Simpson is a cellist who lives in Santa Barbara. She has been previously published in the Big River Poetry Review, Right Hand Pointing, Spectrum, Step Away Magazine, and Into the Teeth of the Wind.
