From her tied-up hair an invisible garden grows.
Prim, button-downed, a waist choked by white bow,
She thinks a billion thoughts every day.
Though, how dark the mind, she dares not say.

It’s as if corpses were strewn across the bedroom floor!
When she pries the laced dresses from behind the closet door
And flings them at the bloodied carpet.
“Now, tell me, madam, where this madness started.”

Yesterday during tea, when the insufferable words of men pressed against your brain?
Or when you thought you saw the blood of motherhood reflected in the midnight rain?
Or when your father’s dead face sang
While the church bells moaned and rang?

Such mad visions as these
She sees beneath the trees.

Oh the surreal sights
By white candlelight.

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