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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