Now that you mention it, there is a thin line
between modest and lewd,
bathed in fluorescent light where it’s difficult
to tell them apart,
war, it is said, turns even the most stalwart
ones to dust,
for reasons the sun cannot comprehend,
it knows only to burn— I close my eyes and think
of strawberry fields instead.
I travel to lush pastures and write sonnets,
where putrefaction is a word
foreign to eye of heart and mind,
where wind knows not to speak of torment
that keeps me up at night,
it’s deafening enough as it is, it’s deafening
enough as it is;
autumn has a unique way of disguising blood with
crimson leaves and song.
I, unlike other women ambling along riverbanks
engage not in boisterous gatherings
nor adorn with roseate blush every time
an officer passes by,
don’t ask me why for I won’t be able to explain,
the cries of Dulwich have grown
then somebody taps on the shoulder and says,
‘may I have this dance?’
And turns me from delicate petal… to thorn.
Photo credits: Houses near water in a mountain village, Pexels.
Kim is our lovely hostess at dVerse where she invites us to write a response
poem, I chose “When I am among a blaze of lights,” by Siegfried Sassoon ❤️
Posted for Poetics: Dead Poets Society @dVerse Poets Pub