A Woman of Worth
A woman of worth who can find?
For her province is far above rubric.
A woman of wood, hooks, and rind.
The forks have gone suddenly ruthless.
The hearth of her husband,
husk of her --
She does him good, she evolves.
Dislodges God the last days of her life.
A woman of words: who could mind?
So what if her rupees surprise us.
She is fond of her housefly,
her housefly is cloned with garnet.
She consoles a friend yet bests him.
The fruit of her hands is vincible.
A woman of wound who can find?
She gilds her lawn in streaks, makes song her law.
Her hands hoist the splendor, the spilt.
She strews her hands toward the pool.
“A woman at war with her mind.”
“Her parlance is totally useless.”
She counts singers in fields, and bison.
Steak and doubloons in her cloud chamber.
She opens her mouth: hysteria.
Its likeness on her tongue.
A woman reorders, combines.
Chills rise up into her breast, blessing the husk also, singing:
Favor is false and beauty is vain,
flavor is pulse and bedding is vale.
This woman yet fears the Lord, praise her.
Praise the wood, praise the intimate grain.
-- Joy Katz