The Courtesan


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.