Sometime After The Betrothal
with red hair sprawling over the wind
like sorrel, a rampant weed
suggestive of her gypsy roots, her gallivant.
There under the oak’s
refuge,
is the person I left
behind -- watching grassand wild ponies paint the field with motion,
maybe wondering which ones
descended from those who were hitched
to that wagon hauling a bohemian heiress
and her powerful belongings east.
I have shed my addiction
to storytellers and tarot cards,stones and stars; and yet
the queen of the Magyars
still haunts, lining my pale skin
like the luminous satin
of a trunk or cape. And if you were
to snap a picture of me now
in this room of glass and steel,
she would appear --
shadow permeating form, breath through body.
A double exposure seen
by those few who knowits natural, not intended.
Just there, always there, indelible.
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