The Matrons

The matrons walk into the ballroom—
tastefully dressed and strung

in pearls
they quietly surround me:

the line they murmur
is always the same:
Do you want to dance upstairs,

from behind?
You can have all of us. It will be

like a forest.
And how much does the house
take? I ask.

Thirty three and a third.
And what do the trees
say?

The elms whisper

rainfall and the pines
needle one another

but the broken
oak with its yellow heart

opened by the storm
says nothing:
we love to listen to it

stab at the truth.

Front page image by Leonardo da Vinci.

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