The Women

Women are gathering, collectively moving in ever narrowing circles around the cloudy orbit of my psyche. Both ghosts and the living revolve ever nearer all intent upon one purpose. Never much the womanizer I allowed women in. Some played me on the shoulder of a dark cello, some loved me as best they could. White flags and red flags waved on a common field leading inevitably to disorderly retreats. Toads evolved into eagles and flamingos, then regressed back to tadpoles. Loathing could easily melt to obsession, sometimes appearing as that opaque moonglow often mistaken for love at a distance. Now the women circle my life closer and closer, not to menace or forgive, or renew a romance, but to close those broken circles love makes when it breaks up with itself.