The slip of a girl

is very much like a black and white morning dew drop

on a windowsill beyond the horizon of your morning tea

she undulates

in the swirl of leaves in your asian cup

like a dragon

unfolding each scale to mesmerize you out

of unadorned thoughts about your morning commute

like petals

they fall on the rim of your dish

with sunlight

as your wife wanders in from a morning waterfall

glistening and lovely

in her white robe;

when was the last time you told her how beautiful she is

that she is like an ornament on the old oak of your mind

that her limbs remind you of ivory branches

underneath which you curl and take refuge out of the responsibilities

of being a man

The slip of a girl

she runs in and out of bursts of sunrays spilling through the curtains

ruffled across the kitchen window

her laughter like razor

on the vine of everything that has been lost

her undulations wispy sweet specters

as she bumps into the old fat cat lounging by the bowl of goods;

old Grey is the only other who sees her like you

and though you think the ghosts should make her shiver and arch and hiss

she purrs

and rolls onto her back for invisible childish hands to dance

across her full belly

The slip of a girl

is around every bend of memory

her crystal laughter in every sound of china falling to the floor

as your wife hunches over the broken pieces of the two of you;

when was the last time you pulled her into your old melodies

or attempted to amuse her muse inside an envelope filled

with notes of love

and wrapped up in your ocean of once upon a times

when was the last time you comforted her in your mutual pain

The slip of a girl

she sits on the countertop

little legs kicking back and forth

back and forth

blue eyes reflecting the sky beyond the window

through her papyrus skin

as your wife picks up the china pieces without sound;

you lift the heaviness off your thighs

and out of your pensive heart

and walk

and fold across her white robe like the dawn

The slip of a girl

she smiles

and whispers across the mother belly

and the father hands

this slip of a girl who never was

beyond a story inside a fragile womb that could not hold her

and yet who had such a tale to tell

and such a slip of presence as to burn brilliant inside a memory

of two who loved her

her could have beens

her was

her is

and her will be

copyright:2008victoriaseleneskyedeme/publishamerica

from

THE RASPBERRY GIRL

Coming to Bookstores in Nov.2008