I would imagine, at the end, she fought
herself; the urge to breathe is powerful.
The willow helped; I'm sure those terrible
arthritic fingers in her drunken dress
gave more authority to the command
to drown. But then, she pressed her slender hand
against the glassy surface. She transgressed.
For this audacity, they buried her
without a requiem -- let them inter
an empty fair and unpolluted shape
for virgin violet food, so she escaped --
So all my sisters' mad despairs are mine;
pills tangle in my arms like willow vines.
No comments:
Post a Comment