Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Lioness In The Grass
I have searched for my skin,
And for my face,
Every place the sun reaches or does not.
I have heard myself in the scrape of boots on stairs, leading up;
I have called myself from the shadows of corners,
Found traces in the pages of old books,
And seen myself in the round faces of raindrops on a nine-paned window.
I have refused faces handed me,
And have slipped out of skin that did not fit.
I have kissed women on the mouth and known they felt the ghost inside;
I have kissed different women, in the later afternoon, and known it to be exactly right,
Fitting like a cup and saucer,
We begin wherever we find ourselves,
Like closed-eye cubs born to the lioness in the grass.
We are like the iris, purple and blue,
Recurring, beautiful, temporary.
I am not who I was.
I am a blue-eyed huntress balanced between bounty and starvation.
I bloom, though I know the sun will sink
And the unstoppable winter crouches just beyond the boundary of my heart beat.
for One Shot Wednesday
the photograph of the irises is taken by and property of Hedgewitch