Vanity, Thy Name is Woman (A Muse Is Just Another Muse)

by Charlotte E. Wilde

On fancy stationary in fine French ink I ash
a trinity of cigarettes to remind me of your taste—
one for the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.
Left-hooks swung slower in my dreams,
[ball and] chain-rattling reminders of Christmas’ past,
lest I fail to admit, or atone
for milky shades of skin-toned sin.
To be but one of many Eves, vanity, thy name is woman:
biting champagne shoulders, apples un-forbidden,
fault spread thinner than a revelation and jelly
where GF stands for gluten free, not girlfriend.

Misconstruals hung in prose-hall-haze,
my meditation, a wine-glass confessional,
musing: muses meander in multiples
adorned not in the uniqueness of a snowflake
but water pitchers marked: love.
No floor or internet left un-paced,
for fortune never forgets a leading role
or Oscar worthy performance
in deceit, desire, love, lore or loneliness
mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa
te absolvo a peccatis tuis.

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