Mourning
My sister sits at my grave
and mourns the loss of herself.
She wears cool, black silk with small pearls
fastened round her neck which weep
like the babies she never had.
She leaves me her severed head
and walks home on four-inch stiletto heels
tapping out the rhythm of rain.
Flowers bloom in her wake which she never sees
but I feel their roots growing down into me.
that I wore each day
and patch them back together again.
less give, less ease,
another stitch lost, less room to breathe…
I could hear them all breaking
as my fingers worked
and worked their strange and subtle dance
through a sliver of air
my skin revealing
secrets like
a reluctant bride’s clutched bouquet,
her lacework linen turned to stone
and the milk-white veil altered
in a gargoyle’s cold decay.
the delicate filaments spidered
like veins through a dark glass,
and still threadbare.
My sister sits at my grave
and mourns the loss of herself.
She wears cool, black silk with small pearls
fastened round her neck which weep
like the babies she never had.
She leaves me her severed head
and walks home on four-inch stiletto heels
tapping out the rhythm of rain.
Flowers bloom in her wake which she never sees
but I feel their roots growing down into me.
Threadbare
An old habit, I would pick up the threadsthat I wore each day
and patch them back together again.
But every time I felt
less weft and weave,less give, less ease,
another stitch lost, less room to breathe…
I could hear them all breaking
as my fingers worked
and worked their strange and subtle dance
on a ripped corsage of threads
which suddenly weighed nothing, floating awaythrough a sliver of air
my skin revealing
secrets like
a reluctant bride’s clutched bouquet,
her lacework linen turned to stone
and the milk-white veil altered
in a gargoyle’s cold decay.
A pall of frozen silence stays my hand.
And soon my garb will be lichen,the delicate filaments spidered
like veins through a dark glass,
and still threadbare.
