one’s mistress: inamorata

my mother’s mother danced with the devil
and she danced with Time
and both kept her as their mistress
and every night before she slept
she wept

and in the morning she made excuses as
to why her eyes looked red
and weepy
sleepy

and from the window she stared
ghostly shades of pale her face
and laced with scalded words of rile
she held her pride in hand
and silence came
and went

and Time laughed and the devil held its breath
and my mother’s mother birthed a child
into the waiting palms of both
inamorata
inamorata
inamorata

this crying out
this bloodless birth
this escapade of paramour
whose wicked ways set tales of woe
and heartless acts of shame passed on
regrets and yet no words expressed

where was love if love at all
within this dance which took its fall
deep inside an abyss of Time’s own making
creating
guilt and blame
and shame?

is there not to be love
if a mistress kept?
is not love
the eternal genesis fire of the soul?
does it not burn even like the smallest of flame
or like a brush fire out of control?

is it meant to scald the most sacred
of places the heart holds dear?
inamorata
inamorata
you stole my mother’s heart
and took her life and left me to bleed.

kimberly millen brown November 2011