So here she is, dressed in red, not bitter nor mean
nor chained to a box of lacy poems.
This tells of how she let go of her dreams
for the work that has furrowed her brow
so heartbreak alone won’t name her.
And the potions she made were never to ruin
but to soothe the cave of acid words
stuck in her throat since the dawn of mean
adulterations cast upon her truest heart.
Then acid words were all she had
and she flung them like rocks with a boom
so big, only the sea could receive her.
And how it was that she and that lucky star
went home again on moon-white horses
over waves of rage, allayed not dead,
reclaimed is all, and all set up, for only
ever wearing her latest best in red.
Painting by : Kathy Tynan