December 2018
Joan Colby
JoanMC@aol.com
JoanMC@aol.com
Note: "The Heart of a Woman" renamed "Her Heartsongs" as the title poem of my latest book was inspired by an article in AARP discussing heart conditions in women. "A Woman Scorned" was inspired by a news article about the initial image in the poem.
THE HEART OF A WOMAN
The heart of a woman beats faster than the heart of a man.
A billion more beats over a lifetime. No wonder a woman
Is tired. No wonder she crawls into bed with a book before
The evening news arrives. Her heart is misdiagnosed
Repeatedly. The symptoms atypical. Blockages in the small
Arteries, the tiny byways clogging unseen by the radiant eye.
Dismissed as heartburn, another of her ailments,
How she smoulders while he stomps and slams doors. A woman
Can die of “broken heart syndrome” Causes include
Losing a spouse or being a victim. Things she can’t control,
That leave her forlorn and throbbing as her heart accelerates
In a dangerous flutter. Consider where love resides:
In the red pumphouse where fires are continually being lit
And being put out. How unlikely that seems—love
Should live in the mouth where its spirit can speak
Over that constant importunate echo. A woman’s heart
Is made of cut-velvet or satin, emblazoned with a scroll,
Surrounded by cherubs. She traces that shape, it is nothing
Like what she feels. The great artery of a man’s heart
Is called the widow-maker. There is no word
For a woman’s heart—it just gives out.
Homestead Review
A WOMAN SCORNED
A woman scorned sets fire to the tent
Where the new wife is celebrating.
Carves her name and yours into a tree
Then chops that tree down with her nail file.
Cages a bird and teaches it to speak
In a language where every verb is an obscenity.
Combs her hair with broken glass until
It glitters like a million diamonds
That you stroke until your hands bleed rubies.
Watches how you sit quietly near the water
While she poisons the tea she is about to serve.
Drives a team of black horses down the avenue
Of your lovers whipping them white as judges.
Climbs through the window that you forgot to secure
Wearing a burglar suit sewn of her eyelashes.
Picks a bouquet of jimson weed, hydrangea,
Lily of the valley, poison ivy, rhododendron
To prove the base and beautiful can both be lethal.
Paints graffiti on the wall of your Facebook
And for good measure stamps a letter with your heartsblood.
Enters your dream unbidden
Wearing the scarlet dress you once admired.
Paces up and down, up and down
Before your place of business.
Removes all the signposts pointing to
The street you used to live on when you were happy.
Pinyon
THE HEART OF A WOMAN
The heart of a woman beats faster than the heart of a man.
A billion more beats over a lifetime. No wonder a woman
Is tired. No wonder she crawls into bed with a book before
The evening news arrives. Her heart is misdiagnosed
Repeatedly. The symptoms atypical. Blockages in the small
Arteries, the tiny byways clogging unseen by the radiant eye.
Dismissed as heartburn, another of her ailments,
How she smoulders while he stomps and slams doors. A woman
Can die of “broken heart syndrome” Causes include
Losing a spouse or being a victim. Things she can’t control,
That leave her forlorn and throbbing as her heart accelerates
In a dangerous flutter. Consider where love resides:
In the red pumphouse where fires are continually being lit
And being put out. How unlikely that seems—love
Should live in the mouth where its spirit can speak
Over that constant importunate echo. A woman’s heart
Is made of cut-velvet or satin, emblazoned with a scroll,
Surrounded by cherubs. She traces that shape, it is nothing
Like what she feels. The great artery of a man’s heart
Is called the widow-maker. There is no word
For a woman’s heart—it just gives out.
Homestead Review
A WOMAN SCORNED
A woman scorned sets fire to the tent
Where the new wife is celebrating.
Carves her name and yours into a tree
Then chops that tree down with her nail file.
Cages a bird and teaches it to speak
In a language where every verb is an obscenity.
Combs her hair with broken glass until
It glitters like a million diamonds
That you stroke until your hands bleed rubies.
Watches how you sit quietly near the water
While she poisons the tea she is about to serve.
Drives a team of black horses down the avenue
Of your lovers whipping them white as judges.
Climbs through the window that you forgot to secure
Wearing a burglar suit sewn of her eyelashes.
Picks a bouquet of jimson weed, hydrangea,
Lily of the valley, poison ivy, rhododendron
To prove the base and beautiful can both be lethal.
Paints graffiti on the wall of your Facebook
And for good measure stamps a letter with your heartsblood.
Enters your dream unbidden
Wearing the scarlet dress you once admired.
Paces up and down, up and down
Before your place of business.
Removes all the signposts pointing to
The street you used to live on when you were happy.
Pinyon
© 2018 Joan Colby
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