Her wounds were so admired
She showed them at the fair
Her feet were like an angel's
And her back was brown and bare.
All awed, the people stuttered
In the presence of her grace
--And at the white scars on her body,
each celestial, troubling trace
which added to her godhood.
And her voice was charmed and wild,
Like a scattering of glass
Shining in a sunny field.
With this voice she told her story
with this voice, she spread her name;
Her name was Morning, Sunshine
(they were the only words which came).
Her wounds were so admired:
They were sharp and cleaned with care,
On display at proper moments
With a mark for each affair.
"This is for when he left me,
and this is for when I came,
and this is for the morning
when I forgot to speak my name.
He said 'Good morning, sunshine,'
and ran into the mist.
The fields were wet and dewy
on the morning we last kissed."
She smiled: her teeth were shining;
fear crept up the audience.
She put her lips together
as she met them with a glance.
"I knew that we were dying
without ever knowing why.
The suspense was something awful
--you can still feel it if you try.
He left me: waiting, willing,
worried, wrathsome, wild, and weak;
And angered, I'm a tigress,
and such havoc I can wreak.
I don't remember how I got these,"
she said, pointing to her cheek,
"but it was for me and I alone--
the I who cannot speak.
"My name is Morning, Sunshine,
I was christened in the dawn.
Don't condemn me, and don't pity,
I neither am nor put upon.
"After we erased we,
he erased me, I forgave,
and then killed and bled and sorrowed,
stole whatever I could save. . .
or I died and woke without him.
All I know is, I can't dream
For I see him speaking softly
And I cannot hear my name.
"And I'm sorry..." she said, crying.
Then she laughed and tossed her hair.
All those little marks were shining
on her skin so brown and fair.
Enveloped by the a.m. mist,
when all the crowds were gone,
she wrapped her wounds in blankets
and stood waiting for the dawn.