A woman in oil

The marks of a woman in essential oil, love,

attest to her presence in a new wonderland

but gone is her essence, her being, her name,

washed into life she sinks, disappears.

Bubbles rise forth as she battles to breathe,

a frog she could be or an undersea ghoul,

rising and falling, her heart, body, all,

in reality drowns, she’s a memory gone sour.

Love floats her right in, hate takes her right out,

she’s bobbing about unanchored no doubt,

but high on a dream she’s a terrible queen

of hidden reserves and untrained discipline.

She goes with the flow like an old shabby clock

ready to stop any minute, day, year,

or maybe a broom sweeping dust from the floor

ready to can it or throw it out on the wind.

And then there is life riding high on a wave

pushing her forward into arms of her death.

A rock in her path and she’s batted and bruised

but would you believe she’s nobody’s fool?

When she is dry she might start over again,

be a woman well versed in the essence of wine,

and then she can drown in full-bodied red

or trip through daisies of pure sparkling white.

Still there are bubbles, she’s alive, she survived.

Her mark?  I don’t know.  Perhaps it’s grown old,

merged into bubbles from half drunk champagne

or somewhere in oil frying potatoes and meat.

Such is the story, tale, exposé,

of a woman in oil, essential oil, love!