The harp and the mandolin

Upon a harp, she hangs, stretched
and reaching out to the heavens.
Entrapped between strings 
that are bound tightly
unable to move
unwilling to speak.
 
No words can express
what she is feeling.
In her heart is a song 
with no tune, no rythme, no beat.
And so she remains, is, silent.
waiting to be plucked.

The mandolin player waits 
the audience, eager. 
He is oblivious to her plight. 
Once they wrote a score, 
notes etched upon a page,
to play in harmony.

But now the strings cut 
deep, too painful. 
So she stops trying to move. 
When she opens her mouth 
a song with no sound. 
And he does not hear her cry.

© the dishonest woman

And the Rabbit plays backgammon

From The Garden of Earthly Delights, Hieronymus Bosch

The Rabbit arrives late, the game already begun. One lies succumbered, propped up against a toppled surface, his head turned feigning disgust, yet smiling. Another on the floor, outstretched, head back to expose a willing neck. A feral beast gorges. 

The Rabbit watches on as a woman takes the die, to carefully balance it upon her head. She made the rules, they are hers to break. A weak soul places his hands over his face. Yet the temptress becons and he dares to gape, one eyed, through finger and thumb. 

The backgammon board stands ready, two arms holding it upright. An illicit enticement, the dices rolled, just beyond reach. He will find her, sleeping peacefully in the arms of a stranger, branches wrapped tenderly, to rest one on her belly, the other on her breast. 

And there on her chest is a black rose. 

And in her womb, he knows, a thorn.

The Rabbit is only passing through.

© the dishonest woman

brush from the bottom

I brush your hair, chestnut brown without the slightest kink; it hangs long and straight, a line down your back; start from the bottom, you remind me each time, though each strand is like silk and the brush glides effortlessly; besides, I like to take my time, before our days begin; one side and then the other, finally pulling it back into your customary ponytail; just occasionally you'll let me make a plait. When you were small I would make intricate french plaits; not any more. There was a fringe too; we grew that out; it's nice to see your pretty face. And then you take the brush and begin to run it through my hair; your hands are gentle and go at a lazy pace. I close my eye and feel the bristles, so slight, against my scalp; too much colouring and styling has taken its toll, or perhaps it's just time; my hair as coarse as yours is soft; There you go, you say.
© the dishonest woman