The Silent Concubine
A black afternoon unfurls
The concubine,
is peering out from the windowsill again
half-alive, one-quarter dressed
hair draped across her chest,
lithe and flowing like Venus,
a stark everlasting empty empress,
stands before the picturesque view in shame,
without a spark of hope,
without a glint of faith,
Cheeks, slightly rouge,
consumed by shades of gray
Lips part, in slowed slurred motion
as if to say, not a single thing
she stutters madly to her self
quick, calm, & premature; maddening
Silently she mutters nothing
under her breath, muted hopes transmute
metamorphic tinted smoke,
congealing wafts of absence,
mouthing words of garbled nonsense
Facial spasm, shifting moods
Blue nightfall descends
She crawls beneath silky sheets
pillowed clouds distilling mushroom haze
pantomimes the movement of a woman of the coming age
bruised lips & yellow teeth
Such a violent addiction
to anyone, to anything
A gentleman enters her bed
“Sorry, I thought…” She gasps
as the three prongs of her bra unclasp
“I thought you said that we could just talk this time?”
underpants lay on the floor
perfumed soft & clean
no room left to dream
air vacuumed
heaving
seething
screaming, she speaks
No room for negotiation
No deviation from the predestined path
a pillow absorbs her head & she is silenced once again
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