This story is not mine or yours
but hers. A woman who lived
when they polished pewter
and pistols before the duel.
Floating from age to age,
house to house, tongue to tongue --
the story becomes the ghost. Her ghost
laced and unlaced
in a changing wardrobe of words. The wheres
whens and whys -- embellished more
each time its told, her undergarments
embroidered with beautiful sleaze.
Only her shoes remain faithful,
the same pair of names
she has always travelled with. One real.
The other an alias.