Kristin-who-cuts-my-hair describes her sweet
honeymoon in the Bahamas. She *Snip*

says it was a telephone offer. Who
in their right mind would? But they did.

In the mirror, behind blue Barbicide,
she shapes thin sheets of hair as she talks.

But she’s only a blur—her island grows,
luxurious, through my reflection. Later, home,

and the Weather shows a swirling egg yolk,
red as a dragon’s eye, aimed at the Bahamas.

Someone told me once: Don’t go to Paris,
it’s not there. And if you loved the book,

don’t see the movie, ever. Untroubled by storms,
Kristin’s green lizards smile on from pink walls.

—
Barbara Young hasn’t been writing much this year. East Nashville got too popular, so she and Jim packed up the cats and moved out to White Bluff. A grocery, two hardware stores, and a bakery that only makes doughnuts. Change is interesting. Because writing prompts can be easier than poems, Barbara sometimes becomes “Miz Quickly.”