6.9.10

He Saw A Woman Washing

Glass shatters as her tea sifts between
her toes like the sand on the beach last June,
salt drying anklets
on blushing skin. The sun was setting
just right then, like a memory
cleaned and recleaned with time,
where only pure curves and tinkling bells
exist: the horizon, a wakefulness swimming
deeper into black. Come morning
she forgets that she even existed,

even if for just a moment, once,
long before the genesis, before
the trees greyed with age and cast shadows
on soils unafraid. From her the flowers
go, petals like kisses from her
mother's eyelashes, gentle on her
cheeks. But now, laughter carries a cane
as he slowly steps,
hunched, down
the hall. Salt stinging, eyes
open to the blue, divinely-hung triptych.

Among women, blessed art thou, she said.
For I alone wander.

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