My
ethereal, kaleidoscopic self is calling for my 30 year porcelain self
to fall into tiny pieces and be swept up into Moses' giant dustpan of
other broken idols and golden calves.
I cannot yet let go her firm arm .
. . her supple skin, her full breasts, her un-scarred belly, her fertile hips, her wanting womb, her tiny
waist, her defined lips, her smooth face, her bright
eyes, her graceful steps, her idealized body, her youth.
I am not yet able to mourn her passing.
I will. I will.
It's time.
She's tired.
She's tired.
2 comments:
April 2013 will soon be here. Will an entire so by without a womanly thought, a warrior's musings? This last image is too rough a closing.
Thank you, Kj, for your comment - WOW! What a reality check! I will get right / write on it. I have lots to say - just been absorbed in the process of maturing (you could say I have been aging in my bottle like a fine wine.)
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