In Winter she places it on a tin,
in the corner of her bedroom,
reflects the moon, and bare coral-like back
of her lover's skin, warm on her eye.
In Spring she carries it to the kitchen,
like a split fertility rite,
places it on the hi-fi stack, to keep watch
on thighs, back, nape of neck and sky.
In Summer she turns it to the wall,
only returns to see her nipples
now hard and full of honey like the bees;
she smiles, and dreams she is a rose.
In Autumn, a mirror for every room,
so the leaves dance like meteorites;
now her shape shimmers gold in the setting sun:
a beachcomber, a whore, a nun.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Maureen Weldon would be pleased to hear from you.