Becoming A Goddess.

The lingering softness of body scent
from wearing the same swathing that
I have worn from the day I was decanted.

My head now a hasty blonde, a fluorescent halo
of stripped bare hair and the full, pallid
face; like the moon's reflection, personified.

The red tulips hang limply from my wrist.
They were so alive before; yet so dead.
Now they have come full circle and
so shall I, so shall I.

The bleak shield of the nylon jacket -
I had brought it with the last handful
of change that clanged in my sticky
green skirt pockets - flew in the air
like the cloak of darkness,
the cloak of sleep.

I had bought it before I loped
seven hours from my life on a
cushioned train seat overlooking
the human nature trail left behind
by savages invading our perfect
hell.

My patent shoes pointing all
askew to my destiny, I walk,
feeling nothing, through the suburban
neighbourhood of the dead.

I clutch at my pocketbook that's
clamped around my breast like
a thirsty set of twins as I see your
name etched on the plain marble plate.

I am becoming you, Sylvia. I strive
to see every fault in everything, hear
every tick of the grandfather clock that
resides in my chapel of sour
tasting polemics.

I look into that exact mirror as I look
down onto you. We are the same.
Identical twins, both dead, both serene
yet separated by a stretch of turf.