i once swallowed her beauty as if
she were a pendant
to a half-light parti pris,
or maybe a
goddess of whispers whose tears
were buried by laughing
children who wept shadows.
plastic candles have drown a song
along her life’s bridled path
while purity
raped and sundered
her floral cinders of love
into an absence of
what is
what should be
and what
she will forever become.
she has never felt like a pretty girl,
and i have tried to make
her
beautiful, but now
a memory can’t call to mind how.
H.L. Peterson (September 2009)




















45 old applause
