Puella Aeternus(?)

22 November 2013

If
Is and was were to meet foot to foot in
The freshwater pond would the
Fish take notice?

Be pigtailed braids of the heart's darling then what be
Hair not cut since the
Menarche?

Menarche, the work of the machete from within that
Penetrated her poking through to
Breathe in the outside world at last--

It
Carves cavernous hallows of
Heart and mountains of hips.

"Purple mountains majesties."

Up the tree trunk and once more
'Round the street corner where boys play in the dead leaves.

What if she was and she still is but she is not still what she was?

It happened even before the first boy touched
Her breasts bare and beared

By the sunken chest become concave since long before
She oozed between her thighs;

Now oozing from the head and
She tries to resurrect the old body,
The young body,
The body whose feet were (are?) no more than silent
Hands wound too tightly,
Or perhaps too loosely so loosely that they spun free and
Thought they could remain so.

Where the shot wound came from cannot be said--
By the hand of the new body,
The old body,
(My body?)
The body whose palms with fingers held firm' leave (left?)
Pink imprints on its own
Throat?

Or maybe from the cannon of pirates, a
Propelling bomb to the head.

Or from the "E"arth

Whose gravitational pull caused her to
Fall forehead first onto the standing dagger that
The rain erected on its way downstream.