The betrayed women sit
on my street corner.
Labels jut out from their collars
like flags, marking them
The sky turns scarlet
and you kiss me.
Your words become as wee birds.
They sing promises to the rising moon.
My legs lift up to greet you
and I'm lost in the great web
I hope those birds still perch
on my bedpost come morn.
Published in Durable Goods Two, a mini-print.
Aleathia Drehmer, Editor
To see this with art on my website, go HERE.