Loneliness Naked on the Grass
The collagist cuts precisely around her edges
careful not to damage hair, fingers,
skin, vulnerable as a snail without shell,
a pale tree whose outer bark
She won’t be needing clothes or shoes.
He offers her a pillow,
searches his files for the perfect
bed of grass.
He pastes her down. She must look
away from the castle. She doesn’t belong
inside stone walls feasting on stuffed swan,
peacock, mutton and tarts–banquets
of the wealthy. She doesn’t hunger,
almost like a mannequin,
a gift for men.
But he wasn’t thinking of them.
No one will question his intentions,
a reclining nude is the tradition.
His scissors hiss
as he cuts out contents for the basket:
a newborn. He never meant
to harm her daughter.
He was poor all his life, drawn to
women beyond his touch.
Haven’t you ever wanted
someone you couldn’t have?
Carrie Albert is a writer and visual artist. Sometimes these merge. Her works have been published widely in journals and anthologies, most recently: The Protest Diaries (B Cubed Press), Gyroscope Review, Sleet, Plumtree Homeless Edition and upcoming in Canticles and Spheres, Propertius Press. She lives in Seattle with her papier-mâché animals.
3/22/2023 04:49:02 am
I like the shift in tone, from focused on the task, to regretful, wistful. Fine attention to detail, too.
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