Mary Au Contraire


She had a hair like Medussa

always running for the sky full

of bird nests and mosquitoes.

Her hands were made for the

high wire, the aloof attitude

of me and mine and you and

mine. She was an old lady.


Defiant to the hilt, she sheathed

life in a pocket and roamed

the world by bus in a dangerous

city. Toes like vices that gripped

the concrete and explained

to it methodically, I am the truth

and I am walking to be heard.


Old values untranscended

to all of her offspring and her

husband left for a younger

prize in another province. Her

mind was a whip that snapped

in echo and belched up sermons

for an audience of Cassandras.


When she died, Socrates turned

half way over in his tomb.







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