A woman I used to be got up out of her grave
trailing rose vines and the scent of men's cologne.
She swung the decades on a knotted ribbon
and said, "There you are, more wounded, more brave."
I replied that I am made of newspaper and moondust,
a castle composed of carnations and wives' tales.
Meet my lover, incorporeal and not yet born--
she admires my home-baked bread and scent of must.
A woman I used to be gifted me a moue
useless and juvenile, then beat me with her
limited beauty. "You are wise but ugly," she
said, haughty and stupid, then looked away.
A woman I used to be got up out of her grave
trailing rose vines and the scent of men's cologne.
I swung her head from an antique silver chain
and said, "Here you are, more wounded every day."
_________
Wow. That first stanza spoke right to me. I felt every line of this poem. "I swung her head from an antique silver chain". Wise, beautiful, more wounded every day. Amazing writing.
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