On cold fall mornings, the housewives roll
Their eyes while dancing
In dreams of wine-stained nights before
When no one loved,
Not even children . . .

Who play near legs, near empty gleams
Of women who lost
Their dresses fine that cannot be
Pretty again,
For the men to see.

Nothing of young, of the wives who steal
More of their skin once sweet,
No more maiden-laid kisses
That is gone now for good,
For lies were told . . .

To thee too much, for many years
When he raped her solid
Of spirit and horse
Of dogs better loved,
While the children played . . .

Amongst wrought arms, cold and dry
Tuning through cooking.
Nowhere is it said
That beauties once flaxen,
Can’t turn into wintery

Faces of shadows, empty and harsh
Slipping through plates,
And dishes and clothes
Holding her breasts,
While nothing is said . . .

Until now when dark, is here to stay
Mourning a wedding,
For then and today
It was better when no one,
Could dream or wind,

Backwards and forwards
Straight up and behind.
A damsel now distressed
Right out of her head
Tousled and bruised,
Left for dead . . .

And cherished if only
In a sweet baby’s dream,
Once felt for an instant
When young and serene

Once nubile-baked
In buttons and bows,
Lifted and suckled
Like a never-damned rose . . .

Too fragrant to pluck
Too round not to pick,
Women who never dance
Again.

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Editor: Bryonie Wise

Photo: elephant archive