Virginia Woolf's Bedroom

It's the blue one at the end of the hall ―
cover it with poppies you bought yourself,
let pollen drop from your hair like wedding rice.

Lie on the child-like bed
under the narrow eyes of portraits.
Let your wasp eyes unhinge, draw honey.

Be made a woman here.

Slip endless stones from your pockets ―
raise the window against the rush of the river.
You prefer men to cauliflowers (and hours).

Let life stand still.



tk/June 2013

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for this excellent read.

Charleston Farmhouse Door 

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