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Tonight, I am an old woman
sitting prettily, drinking tea.
A book of poetry is
parted on my lap.
Sometimes the Manx
kneads my skin,
then flees out
his little door.
I have opened my windows,
hoping for the haunting
smell of lilies
on the wind.
But it is autumn,
it is dark,
and the moon,
I feel her
jungle of arms.
She is wrapping
around this house,
pulsing through crevices.
I want to slip out
of my blue housedress
and into my young,
beautiful body.
Celia
Celia Homesley lives along the wild Northern California coastline in the small town of Arcata, one of America's last liberal bastions. Her publication credits include Poetry East, The Bloomsbury Review, Fourteen Hills: The SFSU Review, Luna, and others. She was a Poets & Writer's Artist in Residence in 1998.
Copyright by Celia Homesley
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