Monday, August 3, 2009


Chestnut curls
in lazy whorls
to the floor,
time itself reluctant
to touch her.

But hair will grow
again not knowing
how relentless
is this blade.

clothes torn
hair shorn
nothing left
to cut?

(reluctant fingers
relax their hold – cold
clunk of steel on counter)

I need now
only ashes.

She turns away
from the mirror,
seeing nothing,
hearing nothing,
feeling blessed nothing
near the surface in this moment,
thinking only of the ashes...

must be something here
to burn...



Nadege said...

a haunting poem, a visual is in
my mind that i won't soon forget.
reminded of a forever sleeping
beauty, but not in the traditional
sense. a woman in sweet paralysis.

RachelW said...

Mmm... yes this speaks to me. I've done both, shorn and burned. Burning is such a cleansing rite, and the fire is so very enticing. I love the dual play of voices here.

Woman in a Window said...

Read it three times. Caught in the exhalation of this one, her breath. What is she thinking? What is she trying to shed?