Asway on top of my tower of mattresses,
my Tibet, the stars are allies as they die
perfect and sudden in the corner of my eye.
Speech floats up to me in streamers. My hair
fans out. Below, the village children sleep
insular as bears. Daybreak when I descend
these soft cliffs, all will amaze
at my bruised authentic skin, the acceptance
of pain with grace. I question only this:
that the stubborn knot I lie on
is genuine as a cultured pearl,
gritty against the teeth, but not a pearl.
I lie in my skin as in an ugly coat:
my body owned by the citizens
who ache and turn whenever I turn
on the pea on which so much depends.
The Princess and the Pea
Did you enjoy the the artible “The Princess and the Pea” from Jane Shore on OZOFE.COM? Do you know anyone who could enjoy it as much as you do? If so, don't hesitate to share this post to them and your other beloved ones.
Leave a Reply