Being a Woman is the Art of Waiting
The most unnoticed but the finest of all
You won’t find its creations on Louvre’s walls
Nor will you feel its marble breath
Trapped in the nave of a Roman church
You won’t bend your knees on the sound of horn
When its glorious adepts create in chaos and gore
In the name of God
For the glory of the Lord
Ave, Ego, morituri te salutant!
No. That’s the easy way to go.
The Art of Waiting requires living
Requires breathing
The unbearably still air
Its exhibition has no beginning and no end
Discreet pieces present themselves
In a rather modest way
Have a look at the one on the left
Observe the grace of the swan in her frozen arm
When she comes to realize it’s not the time
To stroke your cheek before you leave
(Not yet.)
And what do you think of the mosaic over here?
Can you see her longing lips begging for a kiss
Forced into a grin of the staircase chill?
(Not yet.)
And here’s a masterpiece!
Monument of fear locked among her ribs
Sculpted by her heartbeat
Pending in the void
Of anticipation
For the vibration in her purse
For the sweetness of your voice
When you say her name
For the yearning in your gaze
For the first touch of your hand
On her arching waist
For all those things
That never came…
(Not yet.)
And even though she knows
Her collection won’t bring her fame nor riches of the world
It won’t be visited by millions and showered with love
Nor hailed as chef-d’oeuvre
In an ecstatic review
She doesn’t care.
All her waiting is only for YOU.