just a woman

   just a girl –
   so many years a woman,
   but just a girl
   after love –
   age relinquished
   like a dueller’s glove –
   her soft face lying
   in folds of grace,
   pillowed in the hollows
   of love’s lost restlessness
   like petals of roses
   blown against november

...after love –
all her days’ cares
abandoned, her face
rose and beached
with no trace of scars –
a face less travelled,
the pilgrim home

   ...after love –
   yesterday’s scars
   worn like medallions
   behind fast eyelids,
   scorned and half-forgotten
   in abandonment
   like old wars
   dozing in old craters

...after love –
just a girl...
the woman has slipped
the bridle of her high places
and found the liberty
of empty falling,
mind without mind –
the freer bird
that lives and loves and dies
upon the wing

   ...after love –
   her body folding
   in excess of love
   like some caged bird’s wing;
   her hair holding
   the feathers of his breath
   in trails and chains
   of whispers on the pillow;
   her torn self flying –
   yet staying

...after love –
just this girl
has cast the mask of woman
like a lizard’s skin
and dances in her head:
for just that measure,
how her face unfolds
and throws away the years
in smooth forgetfulness

   ...after love –
   just this woman
   is crowned
   with all her secrets
   which she wears
   like thorns of roses...
   just this woman
   bleeds a little
   in her deep places
   after love
   to nurse and exorcise
   the ghost that is
   the restlessness of
   the lost rose petals of
   just a girl.