The woman is wearing jewels and a smile. She's a woman now
or at least she's pretty sure
it really depends on the day.
History trails behind her, like all the mahogany hair that
isn't there anymore, but was his favorite part. History said
the measure of a woman lies in the worth of her hips
the twist of her lips, or so they said. She sees peridot
out of the corner of her eyes, in shadows and in
handsome faceless strangers. And she figures
she's a woman now; the way she sees her fingers
long and white, gentle lines drawn
on strangers arms
familiar corners
a warm jaw. In memory. In the dark.
In the dark, she nibbles her fingertips
and cherishes the sensation of not
quite
being a proper lady. A woman, yes,
but in this empty bed
but in her mussed up head
with her nibbled, lonely fingertips
not a lady. She closes her eyes and
with a deep breath she imagines space. She imagines
her body
filled with space, her 24 ribs pulled back
like the bows of 24 warriors,
two for each month of a visceral, joyous battle,
though she's not sure she's a warrior anymore. Not
quite
the girl she was with a heavy shield and a blade of
cheery cynicism she treated as friend and lover both.
Not a warrior girl, not anymore,
but a woman full of space, and
a woman playing host to the passing of time.