a poem by Antonia Clark (1 of 2)

The Bride Makes Ready

The bride has not yet come
to her senses. For weeks now,
her mother has served up
the dry meat of reason.
Her father has offered bribes,
has urged her to take up
the habit of husbandry.
She shows them her milky
teeth, her sharp filed nails.
She would rather give herself
to a shift in the wind, to stillness
after a hard rain. She waits
for a foreign tongue to part her
lips, a stranger searching
for a door. Then will she
learn to be opened, to be
an opening. For now,
she ticks off full moons,
she bleeds. She grooms herself.

© by Antonia Clark
 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #10 ~ July 2010    next poem