MS (1968 / Georgia)

Let My Husband Know

Let my husband know
that this, my veil, sprouted from my skull
like milk bursting with fat spurts from a crusty fissure.
The veil, smoke from the flume.
And I, the blackened chimney
or too-hot porch that releases
globules of milk fat—wisps—
floating to high up places from where there's no return.
Let my husband know my mother's soul is a veil—
flown worriedly into my hair to sway me—
but paint
on my flesh still lingers, like a bullet made of diamond.
Let my husband know
I'll wear a veil of sweetened pigeon meat on the back of my head,
or instead of a veil, I'll use his letters as covering
as I grow old and transform
like a flower unfolding in boiling water.

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