She was caught
in stark relief;
back lit
by a neon cross.
Her old world ways
had claimed her,
but she shed them
like a shawl.
The world
had denigrated
her efforts
and her skin,
but there were no
superstitions
that she still had
belief in.
What does it mean
to live one’s life
without the magazine
cover, or a place
in any scene?
When friends abandon
walking in the desert
in the sun,
is she a model
of the out-of-fashion?
Was she ever one?
Wind blows her hair
and sun beguiles her face
and she’s adorned with shreds of skin,
bone beads
and sky in trace.
Her eyes reflect
the summer storm clouds
outside this cheap motel.
She stands there quiet
for a moment,
then tells the world
to “Go to Hell.”
Is life a failure
in a bottle,
when it’s drank
in the afternoon?
Is every breath
a condemnation
of who we are
and what we do?
With beauty perfect
in the setting,
tragic only
when compared;
the world is never fair,
but it is there.
She’s asking nothing
from no one,
not once, or twice again.
She has the answers
of the desert
and they remain
as rare as rain.
All her lovers
are in lush places,
she gave them
all her pain.
The orange sunset
on the horizon
is her only
sign of change.
She’s given everything
that she’s loved
away.
Like the world
she remains
beautifully tragic
every day.
HG – 2018
