Olympia Fallen

Peach of a woman:
you have a way of carrying yourself,
the way that Sisyphus carried
the weight of his deceit
in the form of a boulder.

Your shoulders are draped in silk,
your skin the color of milk
and your bored, luxurious face.
You cross your legs because
it's a business for you to own things.

Behind you stands your slave.
For now your lesser and soon
your equal outlaw, your wood
to your fire, the spoon to your soup.
Soon you'll both be in the coop.

Your flower is a wilted apricot.
Your lady in waiting is hungry.
Do not ignore the brass bells
of change: they seek you out,
to furnish your pillows with
the geraniums of going.