with violets in her lap

she sits demurely, no hint of a smile upon her face. her hair is modestly braided, her nails clean. she breathes shallowly, squeezed into a tight box. she folds her hands around violets in her lap and mouths the words to hymns.

alone, in the forest, she lets down her hair strand by strand. she undresses until there is nothing to shield her skin from the moon's gaze. she takes a deep breath and screams at the sky, a broken, wild scream that penetrates the glassy universe.

she scatters the violets before her and tumbles into a mossy clearing, shouting, laughing, shrieking, taking as much of the air as she can and using it all. she kisses dewy roses and bathes in the brook, stares at the stars and adorns herself with her very own holy water.

she drinks nectar like the butterfly, and stains her lips with berries. she finds her own voice with screams and moans. she bleeds on the rich earth and listens to trees. she washes her sins in the pond with lily pads and dries in the warming air. she is in bed by dawn, her hair braided and her smile gone. but her eyes flash with hidden stars, and her hands fondle violets in her lap.