THE WOMEN gather under the trees.
They bring gifts, food, and chairs.
They are gypsies and queens, oracles, saints,
Jezebels and jesters, healers, sages, and warriors.
And when the circle is complete, the magic begins.
Shyly, with dainty movements, they take turns,
shifting aside their robes to expose
missing limbs and gaping wounds.
The others gather close and peer, heads cocked,
eyes straining, and they chant,
"That is lovely, that is good,"
and the wounds stop weeping,
and they melt into scars,
silvery and light and beautiful.
Then the women lean back and laugh,
and they stretch, sensual and fierce,
like cats in the sun.

Monday, December 26, 2011

Dec December

This December I've decided to declare this decree: 
Instead of a decrease,
let us decuple our decadence!
I decry in a decible higher,
"Decriminalize being declassé!"
No longer will we be deceptively decent, our lives decolorized!
During this decade we may become decrepit, perhaps deceased.
We have already begun the decline that leads to decay.
Will we be remembered?
Or will we be decumbent,
leaving a decussate to mark the spot
that no one can decode, no one can decipher?
So,  I declare this:
Before we decamp.
let's decant the wine and deck ourselves with decorations.
Decorum be damned!
         --Sappho

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