art by Drew Roulette
The deceased old woman's voice is a faint dip
in the vale of undead, cursing me of daughter-
less regions on plateaus of ripe wombs.
Not long before, my great aunt whose
life no longer crossed hemispheres of
the living, stood adorning the red gilded
garb of a first bride. My presence was
acknowledged by stoic retinas telling me,
somehow, the waist-hunched woman
at her door was the next to enter the parlour
of eternity, where they exchanged arms
for wings at altars of convention. I woke
from the dream, conceit smug in tresses
of my scalp still bearing black sheens
of curtains, long draped on my sensuous
back dipping to the size of hips not having
gone past pelvic-plunders. It is not a night
of Valium-dust. And there is a cluster
pulling out like arcs from a quiver of bones.
I have seen three women drag queens
out of their hats; the one with the wings
pierces a decree through the distance
of the air, travelling light years between
seven globes. Her eyes look at me across
seven sensibilities. I look again at the old
woman at her door; sensuous-curved
back tipping forward like the sky's arc.
Return Tomorrow for
on the FREEZINE of
Fantasy and Science
Fiction
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