woman haunted
On the threshold to the black hole
that holds woman’s secret
in store, stands woman
in time lost.An hour,
maybe, that’s gone
its way; an hour
flooded in
profusion, where it lost
itself; an hour, when
the mirrors of time
cracked, and were
smashed to pieces.In a room without mirrors of
recognition, the familiar homely is
uncanny foreign.A room without mirrors of recognition,
is a room hauntedby a foreign body forcing its way
into woman’s house that is her
home that is her body.A stranger in woman’s house
makes a woman
a stranger in everyone’s house.A foreign body haunts woman, lives
under
her skin, moves like
a rhythm under
her skin, spreads now
murmuring now roaring a lion
through woman’s body.A germinating seed, a soul in becoming.
A possibility
beyond the vision of the eye.A foreign rhythm in
a foreign soul; a rhythm
transparent
in its movement, yet
always evasive, never
brought to light, but
sensed by the skin, under
the skin, as the
rhythm waxes and wanes,
in the body’s infinite
metamorphosis.
