The madam
She had no arms of love.
her nose was hooked,
chiselled by centuries
of denial
which have dried out her heart
and confused her reasoning.
Thrown there,
into the brothel,
she, a woman,
sorts through bodies of other women
to satisfy
miserable desires.
She is
a chipped stone,
amid sharp blades.
A nice little story, the one about Atlas…
She’s the one
who does the housekeeping.
Cleaning, scrubbing away …
the skivers,
the ones who always have a headache
the ones who say they’re syphilitic
the hateful pretty ones who think they’re
something special.
She has no arms of love.
Her nose is hooked
but her hand is pure gold.
When she raises it
in the dark of night
it shines brighter in the sky
than the moon.
She watches
and in that unmoving silence
of her heart
an unutterable pleasure takes hold.
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