- Non-Erotic Poetry
- The Solstice of Mary Jane
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The crone stirs beside me
her swansong drifts among open-mouthed lilies
which whisper that she still walks my swamps at sunrise,
barefoot, a wick ablaze, in her red gingham dress.
But now, she lies in moonlight,
and death has never been more becoming.
she watches with eyes shut,
Hightide on a lonely isthmus,
promising me she'll brave the swim next Summer
"but Grandmother, the bathwater was left too long,
and your gaze feels like ice"
We embark together.
I stretch before her, a wilting figurehead,
the mute banshee, the lost
valkyrie made of rose petals
She tapers and stills, the last ripples
from the great delta which collapsed within me.
Tomorrow, or maybe three weeks from now,
She'll stop breathing
and I'll read her wrinkles like Egyptian walls
searching for my soul's weight
but all the scale holds is a dead woman's ashes
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