Her Ink, Her Life.

One.

She swore she was bethrothed
to the flickery tiny stars
in the sky; had named all
of them as far as she could
see through her old telescope.
She would mouth erotic poetry
to the stars, instead of me;

and softly, softly
fell to the ground.


Two.


The looking-glass lied to
her; it showed strange bones
and eyes wilder than
she remembered, it was a liar
and that, was that.

Three.

The Irish Setter adored
her, and growled at everyone else,
he tagged at her bare ankles,
like a ghostly guardian, sneering,
snarling, at the vile people
in her twisted world.