The Stars Look on in Wonder
by Mary Leary

    We had nothing to do with the roses on her head,
    she was virgin,
    white and round as marble,
    tall as a pillar. We had nothing to do
    with the fruit spilling from
    her hands,
    black cherries
    falling from her abdomen
    like leaves, orange and blown
    as autumn. The heat on her cheeks
    was not drawn there by us
    but by wind and sun,
    an unseen lover. Her hands
    want to reach us. She says
    we are her children.

    She is making love with the moon.
    She is falling asleep on the sky.
    She is tossing coins
    into the hands of night,
    making green ripples in black,
    for she sees that she must cover herself with a shawl,
    poor modern woman,
    that everything
    must have a price.

    The stars break down and cry.






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