I cannot tell which of the wounds I acquired hurts the most. I gather all of them in a large wicker basket. Every summer morning I sort them out. I re-live each of them.
I see how the Lie walks hand in hand with the Betrayal, and how the Betrayal indulges herself in the sweetest of wine. Oh, that irresistible taste of black grapes that melts in her mouth. It almost makes her attractive.
The Envy wears red lipstick and high heels. She dances naked on a wooden table. At every turn, she spreads poisonous confetti in the air, and lowers her eyes. I try to decipher the meaning of her gestures. I cannot.
The Greed, with her childbearing hips, indulges herself with poor souls who live at the margins of the city. The children are hungry, and the mother long exhausted. The beds are cold. The moonlight enters the room through broken windows.
I feel the pulse in my temples. Exhausted I go over the meaning of love and sacrifice. I try to restore them to the right place.
Love is the consummation of all acts leading to the warm meal one hands to an old man during winters. It is the sum of all unknowns. It is the finger that draws stars in the darkest of skies.
Sacrifice? You tell me.
Sightly revised version of the original published in Women: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose
Gabriela Marie Milton
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Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings