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  
increasingly complex—  
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