Archives for faces

2010-03-12 15.51.12


A curtain of golden curls reaches past his shoulders. He moves through the graveyard barefoot, careful of thistles and pinecones. The ragged hem of his wide-legged, washed-out jeans brushes the grass like a gown.

In June, he planted petunias and daisies in front of old mausoleums, the ones whose families send a check every month, get a wreath at Christmas, lilies for Easter. If he stays on, he’ll bag the fallen leaves in October, pull up the memorial flags so they’re not worn ragged by the winter winds.

In between, he walks the endless rows of gravestones, breathing in gasoline fumes and wielding the roaring power of a Stihl 27cc weed eater.



The wind turns his hair to coarse, black streamers. His skin is deep gold, and his features are mathematically precise: flat, sweeping planes bisected by sharp cheekbones, the acute angle of his jaw, the perfect arch of his brows.

He stands up on his pedals and  coasts. Though his chest is bare to the first spots of rain, his lashes are heavy and his mouth is red, as if he has put on stage make-up to greet the world.

face like the moon


Her face was wide and pale, and she was wide and pale all over. The blunt fall of brown hair to her chin only emphasized it. Moon-faced is not usually a positive description, but the moon lights up the night and moves the seas from two hundred thousand miles away.

Likewise, she turned and turned with grace, steady in her orbit. Likewise, she had a dark side.

2013-06-20 11.21.24


Her tightly permed curls echoed the linked metal circles of the necklace that covered most of her chest. Both were silver. She wore a white leather cap, white orthopedic shoes, and carried a pink cane printed with small, yellow flowers. The first three buttons of her shirt were undone, and the point of her chain-mail necklace touched the center of her bra.

Condensation rolled down her second beer. Outside, her white Cutlass Ciera was double parked.



He had everything but the pith helmet: the worn leather boots, the close-cut khaki jacket and matching trousers, the bow tie, the tortoiseshell glasses. Ropey strands of sandy-grey hair washed up over the bald dome of his head like seaweed on a shingle beach. His lips were wide and fleshy, pink and dry. A cloth-covered canteen stuck out of his jacket pocket.

His stride was long and easy, and his dusty boots ate up the city sidewalk. He knew where he was going: somewhere far from here.
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