Friday, September 14, 2007

crevices make


Dead roses cling to their beauty,
Like stretch marks from a baby
Reminding its mother that
Should it depart this life before
She does, those marks of labor,
Those marks of birth
Remain to memorialize
The aesthetic of death:
Being a woman
Wrinkled in withered beauty.

.99

--jenn on her way to sunday school

1 comment:

Wildeve said...

Wow. I had to go back and read this several times. Very well written. It leaves me speechless, takes the wind right out of my sails. That's what happens when I hear the truth- not prettied up, just real. What else is there to say? You said it all. Finally, after my third attempt, I could write a comment. Really, I just want to give you a hug.