"Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn." ~Thomas Gray
"Poetry unites." ~Anon
"Truth is such a rare thing, it is delightful to tell it." ~Emily Dickinson
Written by Arlene Ang
She lives in Spinea, Italy
Her website: Arlene Ang
Previously published in The Desecration of Doves (iUniverse, 2005)
Women in Love
It is the pillbox hat I remember most, a Paris
green with matching veil. In our house, au pairs
came and went. She lasted two years, smiled
rarely. Under her instructions, my mother slimed
fish, towel-dried glass jars. We ate raw
tuna, babbled in Japanese. Father called it war,
snatched saké from her hands. He was never sober.
We got used to padding around in terry robes.
Her power suit spiked him, every room was mined
territory. In time, my mother burned her denim
pants, the linen dresses, tinged her hair ocher,
took to strolling in the country. My summer chore
was to tend the lawn. I saw them under the peach
tree once: a cutting moment. There was nothing cheap
about her lipstick as it stained my mother's pale
neck. From afar, I heard the church bells peal.
Posted with consent from the writer.
Note: All written material is copyrighted by the individual writer and/or blog author, and may not be used without written consent. Copyright © Breathing Poetry 2009. All Rights Reserved.
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