Backwards and Backwards

 

A picnic of one, and a Sunday afternoon
For none. She packed
Inside her basket-woven heart
A blanket in blue. A blanket for ladybugs,
And incessant desire, a photograph to the last
Sunlit shout before the uncertainty of sleep.
They flitter about
Her imperfect skirt, re-arrange the polka dots,
Match designs upon a back they cannot—could not—
see. The arbitration of expected beauty needs
No inspector, no permission. Downcast eyes speak
Loudly enough and a queen’s will bends
To no fountain of flesh. Canvas of bone,
what heartaches do you hide? The lines of a lie
Cannot be undone through mere motion,
And only a fool
Desires resurrection without change.

 

 

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