by Iris Reeves

she would blow dry my hair for me

while i sat on stiff green carpet,

knobby, skinny girl knees folded under me,

like warm laundry. i taught myself a trick

to count by nines on the bus home just to

show her. nine, eighteen, twenty seven…

i love her. i will count by nines for her

for the rest of my life, all the way through

without ceasing, and when i am finished clawing

at the concrete throat of infinity,

nothing will have changed at all.

my pin-straight black hair will still be cooling

on my small, brown back. she thinks i am so smart.

my cheeks are filled with caviar.

     Iris Reeves is from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma and studies at Oklahoma State University. She has been writing all her life and is thrilled to appear in Frontier Mosaic Magazine. Most times, she can be found birdwatching with her cat, Umbra, or decompressing with British mystery television shows.