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"That would be a good thing for them to cut on my tombstone: Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgment. "
Dorothy Parker, 'But the One on the Right,' in New Yorker, 1929
Bright
flowering bikini on Woman
Clothed in hard
leathered Flesh.
Age sagging
once pliant Breasts.
Frail skin
wilts on brilliant painted Nails.
Long past her
time as Maiden or Mother,
Youthful
allusion taints my lusterless Crone
Delusion
relinquishing glorious Crone.
Sad, artful,
dispassionate Woman
Forgetting
earth’s ancient Mother,
She wages dark
battles against dying Flesh
With manicured,
hard tapered Nails,
I am led, as
she damns her furrowed Breasts.
She demands a
return to immature Breasts.
Cringing she
fears herself as a Crone,
Lashing at
withered skin with gel harden Nails,
Denying the
soul of the Wise Woman,
She rages
against her Declining Flesh.
Renouncing our
movement past Maiden and Mother.
Chasing a
graceful grand Mother,
Exultant in
soft fallen Breasts,
Matron bold in
a body of Flesh.
Beseeching,
each turning Wheel, Ishtar, a Crone!
Respecting the
passage; Maiden, Mother, old Woman,
Ancestral Woman
charming in soil stained Nails.
Chipped and
rippled Nails,
On an earth
bound Mother.
Radiant
matriarch completion of Woman.
Dreaming
against her soft warm Breasts,
Appealing, each
turning Wheel, Astarte, a Crone!
Matrilineal
knowledge of mellowing Flesh
She honors her
temporal Flesh,
Feels nature
surging in shriveled Nails.
Seeing her
spirit she warms to her Crone.
Hearing earth
summons; her Ancient Mother,
Desires again
to suckle on great muddy Breasts.
Imploring, each
turning Wheel, Innanna, a Woman!
Softening Flesh
of a Venerable Mother,
With dirt caked
Nails and denim clad Breasts,
Ceres! for me a
wizened old Crone, an actualized Woman