Body Not Hers

Photo by Janco Ferlich via Unsplash


Body Not Hers


For my children, when they grow up


The darkness within me, it’s all-
engulfing, viscous, and real,
the mystery of its black rose

still blooming.
Dark objects fall in and out
like planets.

Mars glides by glowing red,
a fascinating eye into hell.
Saturn, redeeming, throws its icy

discus to capture my heart.
Venus holds out her breasts, full wineskins,
suckling her son on her lover’s bed.

Caught in the snare, the snare.
The small solar system with one
black sun.


This darkness has wings. Not
widespread feathery sails reaching
for the sky, sweeping the earth

with the arrogance of one airborne,
but small, translucent wings
flapping quickly, one hundred

and seventy beats per minute.
There, in the darkness within me.
The rose that shelters a bee

has sealed its petals. Dark fragrance
wraps a body that is not hers and is
hers only.


First published in The Remembered Arts Journal, Fall 2018

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