contors

a lady of many angles, wrong angles that writhe and wiggle
you are drawn with a jaggy hand jigging across a page
torn too early in childhood
half of you spilled on the table
the other third : demolished dust cloud of eraser sent scattering to the floor.

and this last bit - this contor drawing
of your face snuggled so close to his.
you could be your mother.

a hand of fate you can't will
to stop tracing over her mistakes;
to color yourself in;
to let some blue or red seep out.

these crazed scribbled contors shaped from mantra
these lines of the palm on paper
are all yours - adulteress and adulterer.