rosamundi what travails your soul did struggle
as if dropped petals could encompass the all or nothing
of the loves
what dried potpurri they made
the bouquets delivered
where is that poem you wrote on the worst day?
the one about that petal inside
where he stabbed you with his thorns
where he ripped your heart in two
halves
not a one of them
wished for fatherhood
nor marriage
they saw you as a dangling ornament
nothing more
“you’ll always look like that,” says he
ready with the compliments in perpetua
the untouched scar along your vows
years ago the irish lace cap
the virginity of a meadow’s queen anne
you used to sleep with it, tucked under your pillow
the rites of fertility or passage
the motherhood you wanted
not even one of them
claimed to be a father
as you think of the pieta
perhaps reverse who held who
in such a deep lap
and where tears fall
amidst the scattered float
of tiny blossoms
~
rosamundi — copyright 2011 — Valentine Bonnaire — all rights reserved
VALENTINE BONNAIRE - WRITER 