The Other Woman
The Other Woman brushes her
hair 100 times with a hairbrush
shaped like a teardrop.
She knows one day her hair
will turn white, but he likely
won't be there to see it.
Alone and unsung to, the moon
implodes. It splinters the old
oak tree, and a displaced
wren beats at her windowpane,
brown eyes begging.
She taps polished nails
along the curve of her phone;
lightning shoots from her fingertips.
The clock chimes twelve times,
but still no car arrives
in the driveway.
She slips from satin to cotton, creams
her face, writes yet another goodbye
note she'll shred before sending. At dawn,
window thrust wide, she sighs,
lets the poor wretched wren rush in.
Pris Campbell
©2005
Art: The Woman The Soul
by Ernest Williamson III.
copyrighted and used with permission
Published Remark Journal June 2006
Ernest Williamson is a self-taught artist and a truly gifted one. View
more of his art by clicking HERE
to visit his website.
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