She is like a sub-context.
She flows inward, and outward, conspicuous.
Translucent in her patterns,
she shows herself the fool, and
all these masks she's worn have
splinteredandcracked in the makeshift.
She stands, nakedandwanting
those limbs still shards from what they once were.
She was a beauty, they say, long before
the winter came and stole her spring.
She was a wonder, they say, long before
age and jaded opinions took their heavy toll.

Did you know she used to dance?
On feet as gullible as beggars.
She was amazing, she went in and out,
paved, a road to nowhere.
She lead us, though, one inkling at a time.
Her voice bittersweet and brooding.
She was her own portrait, her own artist,
herownjewelryboxthatsang,
"this too shall pass."

And I, I was broken,
laying in the dirt before she picked me up.
She dusted me off, that well-to-do-fellow,
I was a knave, I was a dreamer, and in the
illusory coating, I was made whole again.
But only after the drifting, only after the tide.

09/13/2003

Author's Note: again, inspired by kim. i owe you my fifth born.

Posted on 09/14/2003
Copyright © 2025 Rachelle Howe