She is held together by the hands of god,
while a trillion scarab-hooked hands
knead milk-dry glands until they weep
into nicotine stained mouths, feeble
in mewling anger at wanting more
than her frail bones can make.
Sumac and sour apple roots, roil
around her last mid-line weak
menses’ months tapping at hidden
sacks of seeds until last falls
from burlap bag, useless
for any harvesting again.
She puts her hand to his; comfort
in the knowing he loves her more
for having been abused so.
Light of little books could not foretell
She, made to die this dear death,
would be made holy by touch
in her darkest days.
Author notes
pic = http://www.sylviecovey.com/work/portfolios/tree_hands/show_tree_hands.html
In a list
A contest entry
- front lines or the little book of [ let some light in ] by Heart Sutra.
500 points, ended February 15, 2007, 13 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 12 of 12
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"Sumac and sour apple roots..." Wow.
Yeah, this is good.
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This is one of my favorites I have written for some time..... the picture simply blew me away. We can love wrinkles.....thank goodness I have a gentle-hearted man who does.
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The details and sensory perceptions here create a feeling that I am the tree! That is an excellent way to write.
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thank you Zayra....our inner rings tell our stories, do they not?
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Oh Carol . . . once again I am stunned into silence by your words . . . I love the image as well. You have such a distinct, almost sacred way of expressing the feminine and motherhood and as a male, I am in awe!!!!
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thank you pen friend. I am truly one of the group that is trying to bring back the innocence of Eve.
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This is another beautiful one...
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thank you gf....after all, I am an almond joy....you are ...what was it again? Oh a pitless peach?
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Holy Cow!
Well, having read this and the other entry, I feel like a proud little man, pushed down a couple pegs by entries able to nurse poets.
I read the first stanza and was actually afraid that the rest would not hold up to that perfect beginning.
Then the colors in the sumac and apple painted the next step toward the perfect ending. Damn, you are good.
Slinking away....
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Damn, I coudl only hope to come up with one of your many perfect phrases.
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"Light of little books could not foretell
She, made to die this dear death,
would be made holy by touch
in her darkest days."
Sighhh...Woman, you ARE holy...What a magnificent penning, my Sister...I made the mistake of reading our 
mutual accomplice's piece hours before getting inspired (& courageous enough) to think about entering...then I stumble across your hearth & your heart...& ahhh, I feel like such a beginner, even after 34 years...Gorgeous weaving of language & metaphor, my dear Friend...Good luck in Z's contest, Sweetie...
Wanda
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You are always such an inspiration to me...and yoru comments mean much since they come from such a golden pen.
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