her mother casting her shadow again . . .
and the scansion of her shapely body:
why do her daughter’s men know so little
they seem poised on the verge of nothing,
animals jostling for her rare favors . . .
where is the lover’s trunk of happiness,
how will he know to father her children,
and where to take her to be alone there . . .
come round to the many celebrations
drowning in confetti and stale vino,
her mother’s delightful portions of flesh
she reserves for folly should that comes true
what mother or daughter need I do not . . .
my crux, my cap, my pearled sword, a kiss,
the bed sagging under ghostly bodies,
sound like a tick-tocking in a long dream . . .
(6-7 July 2013)
copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander