in the aftermath of
the Christmas season, the quiet,
emotional women who
pretend to be stoic or
aloof in french provincial sitting rooms
, filling sadness with
laughter, and laughter
with question, or sitting
close to the train tracks in
Pittsburgh,
waiting for the pale flowers to
grow. or now, in the
homes of the wealthy
in northern italy, kneelers
besides the beds, prayers to
a god that does not only not
exist, but would hypothetically
rather listen to someone else.
her eyes are sharp with black
liner, her body shrouded
in designer nonsense. her lips
are as pure and delicate as a
raindrop during a drought
in middle america. she is salvation
where salvation is not understood.
she is standing on a milk truck in
a blue dress with red hair, or huddled
in the early spring next to her grandfather's
tombstone in Stuttgart, waiting to be undressed. her blonde
locks covering her large, unyielding breasts.
she is pink skinned and plump, her bottom sneaking
beneath the edge of her red shorts in the summer
with a brain as quick as the bikes that ride by her
in the new york city heat. she is laying in a hospital
bed in Tokyo, cuddled with hello kitty and the memory
of a cheating Scottish husband. she is lover, mother,
daughter, sister, slut,smut, whore, bitch, wife. her eyes are
so god damn alluring, so god damn happy, so god damn sad.
she is wrapped, and unwrapped,
she is only for a day, but her taste lasts forever. she is
truth when someone wants it, and a lie when they'd rather
get away. she is weakness in leaving, and strength in having.
she is every woman on earth.
everywoman everywoman everywoman
