|Image by Christine Donnier-Valentin|
via Magpie Tales
I know where the cushions are buried,
stolen after one of those nights,
deep in between and underneath and hidden –
the wall is also my tombstone.
It was me: snuck them off to enlarge a posterior view
brocade red and plump:
now lying denuded, a mere frame of her former comfort.
Exposed to the wind and the rain and the scorn of passersby
hard up against the wall
(convict built, brick by hand-formed brick
frog-marked and irregular).
A kind of beauty
unseen and shunned
like my naked lap.
Thanks to Tess for hosting Magpie Tales and providing the prompt. Many more in the showroom.