Tangle
I started weaving
barbed wire,
eyes busy not looking
at the burned dead
drying in the sun.
Where are my
black gloves to wear
for gathering the bones?
Instead
I'm wound
in a white lace dress,
I'm wound
in a white lace dress,
torn and tight
as the moon on her spindle,
as the moon on her spindle,
nothing but the last
untangling cobweb
untangling cobweb
across the opening gate.
May 2011
Posted for Friday Flash 55 at the G-Man's
Image: Barbed Wire, by Kenneth Allen, 2007
captioned: "Some times the sheep try to get through"
via wikimedia commons
