I am important to her. She comes and goes,
belonging to that man,
but my fingers climb her teeth
with the food you bought for your room.
She hides most days
in that feather basket,
waiting for your whistle hi.
(So sweet, bananas delight)
Lonely fingers greet her disheveled gaze.
[That morning, off to work, go lay.]
Goodbye, ol’ girl!
(Droplets on ears)
Denied belongings
(She’s here, she’s here)
The papers say yes.
The papers don’t lie!
.
.
.
Divine, divine…but not mine.
First line is from Sylvia Plath's Mirror, perhaps my favorite poem of all time.
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