Her Latest Girlfriend Stole the Silk Tabriz
and Left a Cat Behind

by Michael Cantor

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And so she lives apart, slim and austere,
among adobe walls of mauve and plum;
Tibetan prayer flags sway in cool dawn air,
their shadows skirl about her sleeping room.
She takes Ashtanga Yoga twice a week,
meditates, brews pale green tea each night;
the Dalai Lama beams upon a desk
that sits between two bookshelves: her retreat.

And, now and then, she’ll take a hike alone,
or ski, or see a film, or simply drive
at dusk through shades of hills and twisted pine
to watch the moon escape an ancient cliff;
and wonder why she needs to try again,
to be a judge of women, or of men.

This poem appears in the author’s chapbook, The Performer.

Michael Cantor’s work has appeared in The Dark Horse, SCR, The Chimaera, Measure, 14 by 14, Raintown Review, and many other journals, anthologies and e-zines. A chapbook, The Performer, was published in 2007 by Pudding House Press. He has won the New England Poetry Club Erika Mumford and Gretchen Warren awards, and was a 2009 Nemerov finalist.
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Published 16 March 2010