“Lorraine- A two thousand year old skeleton of a woman has been unearthed in a neighboring farm which has served as a battlefield in both world wars. The condition of the skull and spine indicated that she may have died violently, killed by a blow from a sword or axe.”


The drape of white linen

Drawn over their breasts,

And tucked below,

Can be an ache as painful

As a young girl’s broken heart.

To have your face there-

To have your hands

Tickle buttons from their holes,

And trace the edge of lace

Round my flesh

Is the meanest dream of all.

For I have no curves to cup,

No nipple large enough to feed a child.

I am the amazon gone mad,

Too scattered to hold-

Left without even arrows

In the billowing dawn,

When the women go to find the bones

Of their beloved.

I am the bone,

And I am the beast, the freak

Beneath the white shroud

Of gunsmoke and fog,

Ready to rise, to thrash out

At those who stumble

Over dying dreams,

In looking for lost love.

I know their frail arms,

Their perfect nails and perfect lips,

The hair that seems to slide across

Their shoulders.

They canvas the trampled field,

Arms folded against the cold,

Hair falling as they lean to look,

A hand there to hold it back.

These are not women of arrows or bones,

Ranting will not make them so.

White linen creates the shape

Of flesh, the yearning

For once was,

The injured feel their missing limbs,

The martyred, their souls.

The dead feel every portion

Of their slender forms,

Their breasts and smooth skin,

The absence between their legs

Now forgotten in their search

For a familiar gesture, a familiar grin

Frozen in death.

The dead have teeth and would eat.

So this is a trick played by the mist,

-this other-

They can only be seen in search

Of the fallen,

Or felt with the sense of the phallic,

Or devoured,

Or taken into,

Like into your mother’s arms at the start.

-This is a cursed dream,

Where breasts are mounds of dirt,

Hair, the straw broken beneath the heel,

And the absence between the legs

Is only something to be filled,

Nothing in itself.

I would wipe them away,

Dissolve them in the morning sun,

For they do not search for me

Still beneath the white skin of water fallen

To the ground,

They are not of arrows or bones

And dreaming will not make them so.

Yet they come

Not thinking of me.