David Flynn was born in the textile mill company town of Bemis, TN. His jobs have included newspaper reporter, magazine editor and university teacher. He has five degrees: B.A., B.J. from the University of Missouri, M.A. from the University of Denver, M.A. from Boston University, and Ph.D. from the University of Nebraska. He is both a Fulbright Senior Scholar and a Fulbright Senior Specialist with a recent grant in Indonesia. His literary publications total more than 220. Among the eight writing residencies he has been awarded are five at the Wurlitzer Foundation in Taos, NM, and stays in Ireland and Israel. He spent a year in Japan as a member of the Japan Exchange and Teaching program. He currently lives in Nashville, TN.
HER HAIR
If a woman could be all hair, she would be all hair.
Red veil falling in waves,
like a cataract of blood,
to the middle of her back,
covering her blue eyes,
like holes in the ceiling on a summer day,
when she leans forward to touch my face.
But hair is some remnant of a million years ago,
useless now except for love,
and she
is a million things:
warm hand on my cheek,
a sigh after a long day’s work,
a laugh like shattered glass,
views: economy, deity, society,
vast planetary systems of feeling: love and love and more love.
She feels for the whole human race.
I don’t have time to write a poem about her;
no one does.
This is just a start: hair.
Published HEART 15, 2020