Old memories of Paris, café au latte,
iron wrought on a kitchen sink
where she slimmed her figure
on a butcher block.
She dangled like a wind chime,
toes on pointe,
testing the winds and
the Gods on
Wisdom of Love.
Pretty little music box, my doll,
bathing in sunlight
through reflections of The Tower at
dawn. I asked her what she saw.
Her answer was as black as a widow
living off space between sun flower seeds.
I turned to her soul and spoke
to her in cotton,
she understood,
souls always understand what is next,
and why.
I led her to confession.
She rattled all the way,
dangling eight unworthy legs –
shooting silk like
it meant nothing,
because that is all she had ever known.
By sunset, she had dried up.
Everything that she had devoured
had taken over
and spit her spirit out.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 