Page 26 - WTP VOl. X #3

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Tomb of the Unknown Washerwoman
—Sansepolcro, Italy
Holy relic now, her shadow’s
hung precisely on a hanger.
An attraction, smoothed, creased, flat wounds stitched, injustice brushed clean, transferred.
Stoned, the crime of reading Dante, or Flaubert, or Blok while bleeding, as though menstruating muddied thoughts, as well as soiling sheets in
the tub, judged a capital deed.
Red, blue, dusty, ragged rag doll hung up to fry on a barren
hill, her neighbors cheer soul to hell.
Dust to dust and ashes to soap. Waste not, want not. Industry pays. Monkshood-scented bars on Market Square, the secret element draws
toothy tourists, gathering gifts, spreading word of crafted heirblooms at sustainable cost. Lilies,
white, perfume the empty, locked tomb.
diane G. MaRtin