I am Naomi, pomegranate-eyed,
Purple-pitted stare, a husbandless bride;
My worth is my hair, bought up in silk strands
And tied, for it is implied I betide.
My call at present is to change my ways,
To channel cleanliness and set ablaze
Those bridges which I have crossed so lonely;
And, I will emerge worthy of your praise.
A heart-shaped box is not fit to conceal
A woman’s thoughts which, like blood, do congeal
And, I am a thinker that men can’t hear
But, I’m a tinker, and my pan’s cold steel.
’Twas whispered by a lover in my ear
That the Chatelaine sought with hope to clear
My raw name over tea and I agreed,
So, I’ll make myself pretty and sincere.
I met her once at court and she liked me
Which was astonishing since I’m debris;
Torn, scorned, and tossed aside because I count
My coins on a bed; she and I agree.
In pleasure, unlike in Love, a man dies
So often that a woman will apprise;
The good for her, but, oh, the worst for them,
They who just will not decriminalize.