Sunday

women, sometime invisible
beauty etched from bone to flesh
unique and wondrous
a million windows, watching

why are we so much less to you?
is it the milk in us, the desire we show
perhaps too often, until it is ripped
from us, left in a corner to be picked up

by the next woman, unbeknownst to her,
youth stays in us, unlike you, we bind to others
like us, we hold them close, watchful while
men hammering away to drive the wedges

deep, so we cannot remove them, deep,
that ache you cannot place yet is there,
we run with wolves yet are hunted by them
we are a paradox, and your actions betray you