Tuesday, February 12, 2013

An Old Whorehouse

We climbed through a broken window,
walked through every room.


Out of business for years,
the mattresses held only


rainwater, and one
woman’s black shoe. Downstairs


spiders had wrapped up
the crystal chandelier.


A cracked cup lay in the sink.
But we were fourteen,


and no way dust could hide
the expected glamour from us,


or teach us anything.
We whispered, we imagined.


It would be years before
we’d learn how effortlessly


sin blooms, then softens,
like any bed of flowers.


Mary Oliver

Image by lilithfirefly.


3 comments:

bean said...

ah...mary oliver...and one of her most wonderful poems.

thanks for posting, love.

Wikkedmoon said...

Love this one Rot.

girl6 said...

<3333333333..these visions