Our Lady of the Stars (poem)

(for Cheryl)

By J.S. Porter

The shy bride,
the high-heeled lady
but strips
only at weddings.

You can woo her,
but you can’t win her.

Praise her white silk,
mascara eyes, polished nails,
coconut skin,
and long braided hair.

Kiss her dark, sacred thighs,
and tell her you love her.

The bride awaits her groom.

But, you false suitors,
you Faustian grooms,
she cannot be had
by tearing veils
or peeping under the gown.

The bride moves by addition,
not division.
Number as stitchery,
not as knife.

Number knows the bride
when number enriches the gown.

  • published in Hammered Out, Winter, 2004

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