(after High Noon by Edward Hopper)

The frame house stands alone
as does this woman posed in the hollow
of its door frame, half closed, half dressed,
her skin almost as white as the clapboard.
She has been hungry for years.
Her drab housecoat parts to reveal
breasts sagging with the tedium
of sorting, scrubbing, wanting
that inches slowly away from
a man who never really feels
the incredible smoothness of her skin.

But in this precise angle of light
and shadow, it is sun that longs
for the intimate pores of her skin.
She cracks the ache in her chest
like a plane slicing the sound barrier,
pulls back her shoulders and flagrantly
lifts her breasts to the sun.

Ann Holdreith

If you've any comments on this poem, Ann Holdreith would be pleased to hear from you.

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