Oliver Curran
Wendy Taylor Carlisle // The Fairest // Below skin-deep in the steadiness of organs, // in the upright bones, where all solid, perfect cells tick on, // the widow?s heart, that little zip lock of gore, fills and empties, // regular as a metronome, only a wisp of memory stirs. // Nothing moves her but her chestnut hair, her own pale // cheeks. // She hums; she ignores the darkness somewhere east // of the lace that disappears between her thighs, attends only // to the mirror // that flatters her, watching for signs of that other, // too-fragile face. She remembers her husband complained // of loneliness and fear, as if she could cure him. For him, she // puts on // ugly clothes that suggest loss. For her reflection, she wears // crepe de chine. // She hardly recalls the stepdaughter growing up in a fruit // orchard. // In her husband?s memory, she claims to be stricken. // But she cannot rewrite the fairy tale-evil step-ways in the // autumn // woods, a witch disguise, are caught in the glass where she // displays // the apple cheek, the satin skin, the flat black empty eye.
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