The neighbors mind. To eye her,
they alternate spiraling the lighthouse,
all their anchors moored at the coast,
more oars approaching from the river fork.
They part the drapes when she passes,
crucifixes pulling at their throats.
And unchaining their frustrations,
they hold her crimes always in mind,
then spit at her likeness they posted all over—
from their cellars to their inner eyes.
They dream of opening her with all their saws,
lugging buckets to collect her flow to the sea.
And lusting, they try to torch her with prayer,
their hair fire-blown like unholy tongues.
But she stands in truths that hold her safe,
and they turn on each other to lie in wait.
“Love Letter”by photographymontreal is licensed under CC PDM 1.0
Really fine stanza here. Complex and, in its metaphor, ambiguous:
They dream of opening her with all their saws,
lugging buckets to collect her flow to the sea.
And lusting, they try to torch her with prayer,
their hair fire-blown like unholy tongues…
makes me think of Eleanor Parker Sapia’s “A Decent Woman.”