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The Thorn Merchant's Wife She meditates on how rocks rise in Bluebird Canyon, how hills tremble as she makes love to herself, how memories drift & nod like belladonna kissing the ground. She remembers the first time, there in his flashy two-tone Buick. That night she was a big smile in the moon's brokendown alley. When she became the Madonna of Closed Eyes nightmares bandaged each other with old alibis & surgical gauze, that red dress he fell for turned to ghost cloth in some bagwoman's wardrobe. She thinks about the gardener's son. But those black-haired hours only lasted till the shake dancer's daughter got into his blood & he grew sober -- before solitaire began to steal her nights, stringing an opus of worry beads, before Morphine leaned into the gold frame. |
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