“I hunted the shadows, disdaining thy true love.”

 –Tom Rakewell

 

There are no wolves, neither shrewd nor recondite,

who would venture to touch her willfully

in the places she left exposed to the light.

It wasn’t a sin, there were no wages— she

hid the wounds beneath her skin, a pale hue

that appeared as dappled sunlight on her face.

Bitter men visit to remember their youth,

in this bed where her body never ages,

preserved in the mirror on the vanity.

The only indiscretion is the silence

in the room, the sheets now gathered at her feet.

You see, she wants to speak. Speak then,

we’re listening, intently as gentlemen

and devils may, all horns and motivation.