castor on the counter says
all the moisture your curls lose
will return. smoosh in now β
bathroom’s big enough for two.
these tableaus take eons to form,
happen on the off chance
that biology β physiology β
physiognomy β psychology β
glance / swipe burgeons into a
one-bedroom just outside the city,
where a fogged mirror is accepted as
the viscosity of life on a rock,
pools like a kiss dolloped on the
spinal column, a shy rhapsody, or:
do you need to brush your teeth?
puffs a genesis plumed to end
and back, in the way that oil meets
dentifrice tube, for example,
or pathology a smirk.
Aaron Barry π
currents
for sage
Author Reading
About the Author
Aaron Barry is a minimalist poet and ESL teacher from Vancouver, Canada. His work has been featured in over fifty publications, including Modern Haiku Magazine, God’s Cruel Joke, NiftyLit, and Red Noise Collective, and his debut poetry collection, eggplants & teardrops: a haiku collection, was recently awarded an Honourable Mention in the 2023 Haiku Society of America Book Awards. He is co-editor at Prune Juice Journal. Find him on Instagram @aaronmbarry.