Terror and tears.
The lost years hang like fringe in a stale drawing room.
The green grass grows without me.
I have no part in the opera.
She loved me.
She loved me not.
She can’t. She won’t.
She sat cross-legged on the floor of my living room,
Those long legs folded up like an animal’s.
She told me the story of her life.
How she loved being a mother
And hated being a wife.
He left her in a bare room, sitting on the floor, she said.
“Just like this,” she said. “The baby in my arms.”
We walked among the stone fountains,
The water wasting away to air.
I remember her hair,
And how it whirled as she whirled to look at me,
Her eyes bright and smiling
Like a child ready for the chase.
And then she was gone.
--1975?
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copyright 2007 by Larry L. Dill