And Her Soul Out Of Nothing

Ovarian Tree

Ovarian Tree All night the dull ache of an overripe dream: a room swollen with women-Look at their hands, their hair, fern-like, fallingbouquets of adder's tongue hung by the rootfalling in a gravity that rests so low it drags on my heart, bends down on these boughs; the hysteria of hands and hair and gravity and a beauty so rare it is familiar: Look at their waists, that's how they bend. Look at their wounds, that's where their children play. They fall from my life until there are no women left, only children pulling at berries, and berries dropping and dreaming of a new blossoming. When I'm awake, I'll call this curvature of the soul a state. When I'm awake, (where are the women?) I will have forgotten. 59 ...