the woman; a sonnet

At five she woke up
From her husband arm and snoring songful alarm

Silhouetted by the same lingerie
The ages one, the long and weary
The one she bought by her own money
Look at her neck, look at her wrist
Where gone all her jewelries

Harmony and aloud
At the kindergarten
Where she taught the kids a thing or two
For her fifty, she was meant to not be greedy
This is a violence of life
Keep giving; you must survive

She wears the face of a strong mother
Rich and not poor
For the entire price she bears to pay
She must be wealthy to say;
This life isn’t longer about me but the sons

At five I woke up
From my husband arm and snoring songful alarm

Unfamiliar, unpopular
That my husband pays for my lingerie
Also my neck and my wrist
Are there a lavaliere and an ornament
But what are these, I thought of the woman
Of all her sacrifices
And her endless struggle

For the things I’ve forgot
And for the things she got
She is just the Mademoiselle
Of an unhappy marriage

I must not yet understand,
But she could be true
That life isn’t longer about me but the sons.


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