Katrin

you are the last breath
of that little bird
drowned in your garden
you fear your body is too old
to give to a man
yet you offer your skin
to cold waters of the spring lake
and fish out three wilted red roses
the three fucking red roses
no woman cares for
you say: I am sorry for your generation
we had the pill
but didn’t have AIDS
and when you flutter
like that poor tired chickadee
so many years ago
and want to lay down with infinity
I open the window
to let your soul out