Allison Burnett
USA

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Your eyes, 
which ran for broken wings,
what they told of earthly things
drew only ridicule 
from Modernists
and fools. 
Your dappled throat,
so often kissed,
sang a passion,
quite unashamed,
out of fashion,
with lexicons 
and august names.

It wasn’t as though you had a choice.
It was yours or someone else’s voice.

Your soul, 
stretched wide apart by God,
honored death --
its length and breadth,
how it beckons in the rain
and sighs upon the pane
and rips the sleep in two.
You returned
the classical
from dusty thrones
to the very home
of the beating heart.

Of course you could forgive them.
You knew you would outlive them.




Copyright, Allison Burnett.
All rights reserved by author.