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Poetry
by Marie Lecrivain |
© 2007 Marie Lecrivain
Non-plussed from
your amicable divorce
you tell me of a recent encounter
with a fellow Belarusian;
a middle-aged woman with moon-pale skin
and a mane of long ginger-coloured hair, who,
upon discovery of your single status,
forthrightly proposed
to cook for you.
Puzzled, you scratch your head
as your phantom wedding ring
snags on a lock of hair. You wonder
why any woman would express interest;
after all, your ex-wife waited
until the renovations
on the house were complete
to file the divorce papers.
Your grey-stubbled face
in the rear-view mirror of your cab
questions how desperate
a woman must be
to take an interest in
your emotionally reduced circumstance.
One day in late August,
as you awaken to
the dusty warmth of
a late summer afternoon,
your dessicated, bitter mouth
will begin to hunger
for the savory taste
of another. In matters
of culinary compassion,
a woman is never past her prime.
All
work is property of Marie Lecrivain.
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