Grief, have I denied thee?
Grief, I have denied thee.
That robe or tunic, black gauze
over black and silver my sister wore
to dance Sorrow, hung so long
in my closet. I never tried it on.
And my dance
was Summer—they rouged my cheeks
and twisted roses with wire stems into my hair.
I was complaint, Juno de sept ans,
betraying my autumn birthright pour faire plaisir.
Always denial. Grief in the morning, washed away
in coffee, crumbled to a dozen errands between
Or across cloistral shadow, insistent
intrusion of pink sun stripes from open
archways, falling recurrent.