| yasamin | ||
| jane |
You do not think Of me. We both lay, quiet like ancient women have learned, Through wisdom And sacrifice Hearts mangled on spiked brushes; instruments like mandolinos Of death. You do not think of me, Not because you never have, or never will again, But I lie here, ancient, looking down my nose through the last crease of daylight, before my lashes intertwine and all is darkness. You lie here, wise And top-free and full, Breasts resting on your Persian rib cage, bones ancient Knowing more about Death than women should. Our throats have been slit By our forefathers, and what we have left Is blood, and ancient herbs, The architecture of our breasts - bones- wisdom - feathers. O share your sunlit skin With mine. I am beaded by The way you look down your nose With creases, sharp like bone shards. And still You do not think (09112013) |
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