Notes on a woman (rough)

by mickharris

The gentle click clack of

Ripe rose petals

Green at their bases

As they tumble

Down the stairs

Of a drafty manor made

Of cold

Corners

 

The kind that pull taut in the middle and wrinkle at the sides when you place a fingertip near the meat of it, so as not to rip

Straining

Gasping

Before giving up

Leaving a slight dark tinge of fluid

Blood

Around its severed edges

 

 

Zipper hiss

Of silk against the flawless pile

From Morocco

Turkey

China

 

Each one was chosen carefully from vendors

In bazaars

When she traveled the world

Now imported

Hinting at spice

And careful hands

When the weather turns warm for a day or two

 

She has learned to walk

In heels fluted by Parisians

On the highest pile

The lushest fabrics

On floors so polished

She can look down

And see a blurred

Dimmed

Outline of herself

With a halo of light surrounding

 

She used to chase the reflections of chandeliers in the ballroom floor, darting between taller legs and pregnant sckirts

But it always remained just that much ahead

Until she came to a corner

Certain

It would surrender

 

It would be gone of course,

she would know this ahead of time, prepare herself even as she moved, slithering here and there

she would tell her mother once

when she was ill

that she thought the wood swallowed it up

as a game for her

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