who wrote those lines
who reads her lines?
what etched them beside
her lips, under her cheeks,
into her frowns.
why were they never
erased, softened
does she remember him
anymore or is he
enfolded in the crease beneath her lids.
who danced the can-can
on this stage, in the chorus
on broadway,
where did she go
to reach this place
and does she remember where
she came from
does she know why
she left
does she care anymore
these lines drew arcs and curves in the
air before
dropping atom bombs
paraded before general assemblies,
the third reich, and
their bullets enfiladed down
the trenches of devil's den in
1863.
there are lines where she works and
she plants in straight ones
the flowers never free to
scatter, wander, distribute themselves
passionately
her face is like
her flowers,
grainy with life,
conformity, sorrow
lines that she couldn't escape,
a life that she couldn't
change, a story that she couldn't
bury like manure
she wears her manure,
wears her story but no
one listens, now one sees,
they walk like birds and bees
dancing on their own invisible string down the road of
life.
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