Poem by Edith Mirick

Skeleton

Love had become a skeleton
Whose every bleaching bone
Rattled with the passing winds,
White and cold as stone.

But she who once had loved the flesh
Which hid the bone, forebore
To hang the dangling frame of it
Behind a closed door.

She deftly wove a covering gown
Of laughter and of lies ...
But, ah, she could not hide the dead
Sockets of its eyes.

1. Tragedy
2. Deirdre
3. Home
4. Night Moths
5. Closed Doors

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