I.
she is weary of ceremony,
her hermit-heart
consumed of self
by hungry eyes,
with art bending walls
around her quiet shelf;
of
sacred once-a-month;
[ away from lies ]
of patchwork passions
fraying skin, wearing marks & masks
so water-thin:
each night of Harlequin regret
embroidered to her sleeve,
she wonders when they'll let
her treason grieve ...
II.
she is umbilicus:
a spiral-scar of joining;
a maker of makers,
shaker of shakers,
breaker of Eden's gate.
she is womb:
of withered vine
to branch & climb
those trellises
of shame & blame,
eaten by shallow envy
& a weight of men
she could not sate ...
her splinters drawn from thigh & bone
to blind a serpent sewn upon
her hours -
its rasp of tongue
so scours her creases well
to name the garden fallen
to her absent swell.
III.
her factory of stain
as life
all that kept her sane
& now, in barren,
shelled
by needful mouths
this vacant wife,
she needs them more
than they do her:
Alas, she cannot know their taste
[ she never did ]
for ever buried in her growth,
that lack of understanding
where they hid in rough,
until she screams "enough!" -
this was woman,
halved now by
her waste ...
[ waist ]
they ate each curve & hollow dip
with artful word arrayed from
lip to hip-sway movements
lost to youth -
she stands now so confused,
freed here from her cell,
she cannot comprehend
her need to yell ...
Gold trophy winner
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