Thursday, March 22, 2012

The Curse of her Sex

She is afraid that her life is dwindling into an endless succession of excuses, justifications, evasions, diminutions, failures. She sees before her an endless corridor, with each door locked by her own hand. She cannot understand why this is so, after such struggle! Surely she should have learnt something by now?

Now she listens to the monotone of a fly bumping a grimy window, condemned to an eternity of proving that one and one equals two. No matter how many times the proof is made, it will always appear to be another equation altogether. A transcendent laughter buffets her ears.

 Of course, if she is smart she will eschew proofs. But her punishment will nevertheless be exactly the same.

She was always too proud for her own good. And the window is shutting already. A storm is coming this way, and she has forgotten that the corridor leads into a garden, where raindrops will fall on the dust with a hot, chemical smell that belongs to all the summers of her childhood.

1 comment:

Yamabuki said...

Praying sideways
Thoughts at an angle
Turning with the hands
Slightly at the neck
Moving my soul's compass

The orange of form
Informs my sight
Shadows and floor
Stand in dark grace
And all I see is her light

Dark polished nails
Linger in light
Cigarette smoke
Nearly invisible
She holds our eyes

(from my poem
"Chilled to the Bone")