jolie laide

jolie laide

I started this when I lived in Brooklyn and struggled for grace in a city that grants moments of beauty and ugliness breathtakingly close to one another. Now I live in a place where things are a different kind of ugly and the beauty is pedestrian. I struggle with that.


It has just started to rain. Just enough to sigh the warmth from the afternoon pavement. Just enough to raise the smell of soil and and rust from the squared cement, just enough to bring the tired petals from the pear blossoms down, mixing white and water on the black top.

This girl wears armor sewn into her skin, a permanent hardscape so she will not forget, will not let you forget either. When you look at her you will not see anything you are not meant to see. If she allows you even the air she has exhaled you had better know to be grateful. I saw her throw him a crumb and I knew what it meant, even if I hadn’t had the dream, the dream where I laid my hand on his shoulder, looked down into his face and said “I know you are seeing someone.” The rush of shame and panic to his face remains with me like the balloon you watch escape into the opening sky.


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