Strange how beautiful when we are diaphanous,

a bit of ripped muslin…”For the Woman Who Danced

With the Ashes of Her Son” from Washita by Patrick Lane

 

What makes us strange

is the how

and why of a beautiful

we counted on when

we were young and diaphanous

as first light, a bit

of sun enough to sustain us, a scrap of ripped

muslin

blowing in and out of an open bedroom window.

We sipped at each other’s breath

like air plants

and wondered at our nakedness,

how close to the gods

our perfect skin, our lithe limbs,

yet time makes liars of us.

We have grown old, my dear,

but there are times when I am a questing mole,

fierce in my love, loose as anything.[1]

 

 

 

 

[1] Lane, Patrick. Washita, p. 24.