©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.