©Mimi Wolske, January 2014
All Rights Reserved
Perched
high in her suicide tree,
Never
kept in a gilded cage
As
many would report later,
She
felt like she'd been clawing glass.
Ragged
tears floated down silken,
Desiccated
threads of chestnut,
For
it was a man who clipped her
gossamer
dreams with dying love.
She
held gypsy-red window tiebacks,
Looped
at her nape and spider rolled,
That
were the length of his torso
Lying
in the ground beneath her.
