Her choice breaks down
to being a rose shadow...

by Patrick Meighan

    that falls across his pillow
    in the narrow slit of streetlight
    through the blind,

    Or soft steps
    on morning floorboards,
    familiar breath of cobwebs
    draped above the window.

    Anne Sexton's watercolors drool
    a blemish on canvas,
    a red sloop bucks on harbor waves,

    Or clay from which his world is cast.
    Not the fire burning when sun slips away,
    but the promise that embers will glow
    when he wakes.

    This is her choice:
    not which man to be with,
    but which self to be.

    The healer's hands,
    kneading his flesh
    like dough for Easter bread,

    Or the force that drives blood
    through the bull?s heart,

    Who with a toss of red hair
    can set his bed aflame
    and grind to paste the passion of his bones.

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