©Mimi Wolske, January 2014

All Rights Reserved



Perched high in her suicide tree,

Never kept in a gilded cage

As many would report later,

She felt like she’d been clawing glass.


Ragged tears floated down silken,

Desiccated threads of chestnut,

For it was a man who clipped her

gossamer dreams with dying love.


She held gypsy-red window tiebacks,

Looped at her nape and spider rolled,

That were the length of his torso

Lying in the ground beneath her.


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