In her dark emerald eyes, she steps on clouds
of whitened gold, where the westward winds blow,
swirling the snow to upward fall, covering the skies
with a blanket of frost.
Or she steps downward under thick tree roots
within a pine forest of thistles and thorns, where
evergreens pierce jade skies, peppering
pieces down like falling, swaying,
malachite leaves.
Perhaps, she slips back to a time of sunny sides
and nursery rhymes, with light green eyes,
where she plays with her mother's sage
blouse and with dolls in a house
within a house.
Her body now lies, pale, smooth,
with heaving chest, on a silk and silver
bed, in front of business men with smoky
faces and charcoal suits. Marks on her skin, like ashen spots
on grey butterflies, hide years of pokes, pulls, pricks
when flesh swaps for cash with sighs and grunts
in the rituals of many nights.
I touch her.
She is not here.
I see it in her eyes.
|