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the wilde woman of aiken :: robin coste lewis

by on October 9, 2015

I am not supposed to be
Beautiful. I am not
Supposed to sit
Before the observant eye
Of a sunflower. I am incapable
Of having a voice
Like a robin’s singing
Of springtime’s newborn impatiens,
Its balsams and touch-me-nots
Crouched so low to the ground. Vases and I are not permitted
To dally. If I were a name,
It would be Wall Paper. My hair is made of
A million breathing paisleys.
I have listened to you think aloud
About a five thousand year
Old world
That does not exist.
I am sitting here
In the open,
And you are there,
Dripping beneath your dark
Velvet, waiting for the light
To reach you.
I have wondered
Where you really live,
Why you cannot hear
All the glass inside your syllables
Slide off the table
Whenever your mouth
Opens and is then closed.
The story has not even begun.
The only thing left inside
My hand is my own quiet hand.
I am the fourth sister.
My florets stand together
At golden angles. My head
Is packed with eager seeds
Crisscrossing in spirals
One hundred garlands long.
It’s over now.
About my waist, dark
And bright: there is a satin sash
The color of sun
Warmed eggplant
Still fetching
On the vine.
Prevent me.


From → poems

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