The Woman You Never Tell, Anyone You Know
is a dusty rippled salt shaker,
an old working girl
found busy or on a stroll,
in a brothel house
my grandmother said
was often around,
when people sold
what they could to survive.
See her in the morning,
and her body
is an empty bottle
of sweet red wine,
bought cheap,
kept to deny the rough time.
You say now,
she was once round
and smooth as a glass egg
with a rose,
blooming in her breast.
This woman you knew
carried in her purse
a working poet
and a bronze genie lamp,
in case the days moved slow.
This woman you knew,
displayed a blue-purple dragon
she couldn’t let go
you knew, once were her husbands,
when his father died in his presence,
and while he loved drugs.
This woman you remember
you called a treasure
a face, a rainbow, a toy necklace.
This woman you sensed,
reached for you, during moments
when rainfall increased
sparrows flew by, and her home
a sand-feathered dream catcher.
Now nobody cares to admire anymore.
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