I think of nothing when I sweep the hearth,
nothing except the ash
that shifts and trembles, like breath
made visible by cold, or bird-swarms,
diving and rising smokily, at sunset.
And when I scour the tiles, my mind
is empty. Only, my eyes await
my own reflection, which slowly floats up
from the sheeny surface, emerging
whitely, froth on a dark mill race.
In sleep, my heart is full.
Not, as you think, with dreams
of princes, gowns of thistledown,
my mother's funeral rites,
childhood companions.
I dream of the guillotine,
its shining blade, falling so swiftly,
sweetly down down down,
your fat face goggle-eyed and disbelieving.
You're cleaved as cleanly, crisply, as an apple.
Cinderella by Kitty Coles | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
