Woman with Skin Like a Lace Slip

She defines success, her earnings
between pleasure and bills
while figuring numbers she fumbles
her own breasts and wonders,
“When will I ever become a widow?”

She has to get married first,
but you can’t take yourself to the courthouse,
or stand alone in front of a man of God,
she opens up drawers of her desk,
to search for pens and look through photos,
“I thought there was something I needed here.”

Fabrications sound like melodies on her ears,
she tells people no and walks away unscathed,
tonight she imagines if she would’ve accepted the invitation,
she would be in misery at a table with another person,

One hand up her tee shirt, on her bare breast
as she opens the cupboard,
she doesn’t need to impress anyone,
she eats in her bed and listens to night noises,
“I remember my family” she thinks gently

As constant, yet seasonal, as the cicadas
or the branches of the trees undressing themselves,
she has trained herself to hear each leaf hit the ground,
“They fall on each other, they decay together,

they become the ground.”

It’s only ever few days that she thinks these thoughts
should be shared with someone else,
but then falls asleep and wakes up in the morning
scarless,
tearless,
forgetful that she considered sleeping next to someone,
her hand cupping her own vulva for a sort of comfort,
“This is mine,” she thinks her first thoughts of the day,
and prepares to become the ground alone.