The Schism

The schism is not here yet
But I see its approach

In some ten odd years
Even an email
Will be a disconnected thought

It will get lost
in some tunnel of thought
And I’ll laugh at the strangeness of the idea
that never really came

When everyone does the selfish thing
And makes those duplicates
Through the twisted and thorny erotic union

I’ll be alone
In refusal

And the children will throw rocks
At my window
And call me old witch

I will be a voyeur of plant life
What I thought
Would never happen

I’ll wear a daisy crown
And offer to sell some at my door

They’ll dangle from a rusty nail in the door
That is stained by my first blood

Marked signs of martyrdom
For the strange, sweetly sweat-smelling
little beings that never asked
To be born

I will stare at the centre
Of wash basins
And see life
Divided by a single purpose

And my days will unfold
Undisturbed at last

Don’t you know
I am woman
And I am the island


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