She has come home to the white room That locked her dreams in paper roses, The curtains more fragile Than her wedding dress. Torn in half in her morning, Unhealed on a velvet chair, She marvels at her wholeness In the mirror. Where is her mother who does not come With tea and lemons To say love is a fig And a feather? She knows where he is, his sorcery spilled In willing hands, The bright lust of another's hair Stitching his eyes closed. Blind, he is yet beautiful. There are weeks Ahead, months, and years, years. Outside a pigeon wears a prism on his breast; A horse rears.
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Warren Wedin firstname.lastname@example.org