What her poem wore

Hey, can I ask you sister

brother

Would he ‘ave thought she was to blame

Would he ‘ave thought it was her fault

Would he ‘ave taken her flower—I ask you, gentle grower—

if it had been his mother, his sister,

his daughter?

I ask you, when she suffered,

when for him—and them—it was quickly over, fun and laughter,

when the shock for her was growing colder, mudder

And the dress she’d worn

had not been for them—

the flower-body, the bird, the air, the ocean

the flow-er body of her poem

yet she’d put it out there—

yet it’s blossom had been stolen—

Did it matter?

Did it matter to anyone but her?

Later, when her feelings were nearly over—

sending waves to white cliffs, to —

she didn’t want more suffer-ring.

Silence in a place of earth

Where she daren’t hope blooms

would grow again.

But they did, as they always do—

they did when the games and the gamers—

and the cheering jeering audience—were gone trope.

And she deemed her dress had been okay,

that loving-kindness would’ve respected her

anyway, and had—

regardless of whatever her poem had been wearing or

not wearing, that any sinner deemed bad.

Should she cover? Cover oceans in a black shroud

Should she be dark ghost in a land where skin is loud

Should she never walk on land—

Should she never swim near-nude in nature

nor “get out of hand”—

should she? *When they can?* I ask you,

gods almighty, if it were their

sister, their wife, their mother, their daughter,

would they think so? Would he? Would she?

If so, I feel a great sorrow,

sorrow

sorrow swelling up

in me. It

*tears*—

tears through her—

the truth is,

the truth is

.

.

.

.

***
*draft from 2021-01-07. Related poem: The truth is (WP link: here).

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