Poetry by
Gregory McIntyre

I can push charcoal into any hip
Chiaroscuro shade any lip

I can drag particles of dark
Around any stark form
Form a voluptuousness
From her belly and light

Canberra nights, secret evenings
Behind closed doors
Winking light from the drapes
Naked forms taking shape

But her hair
But her hair
How to render her hair

Not a thumb
Not a smudge
Not a twist
Not a wash

Not a scratch
Not a line
Like the arch of her brow
Or the curve of her spine

Her hair, her hair
Its lustrous sheen, flowing over her breast
None can decipher
Not even our best