Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Another Grimm Story

I am wearing your pink sweater
this month of the deaths of mothers

color of stolen roses & unscrewed
lipsticks, smelling of powder

& Faberge. I can't walk in your shoes
those rhinestoned stilettos

knowing the stories you murmured
night after night by my oak bed

the slippers danced thin as the new moon
the swans wings & nettles

This life's a glass mountain, truly.
It's a forest without roads.

Your sweater unravels. Your granddaughter
frowns into a dark mirror

smoothing her chopped hair. I stroke
this pink wool with my pricked finger.

(another never printed poem. I loved fairy tales).

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