January 2010
1 post
Edge
The woman is perfected
her dead body wears
the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
flows in the scrolls of her toga.
Her bare feet seem to be saying:
“We have come so far, it is finally over”
Each dead child coiled,
a white serpent,
One of each little pitcher of milk,
now empty
She has folded them back into
her body
As petals of a rose...