From high in a tree
over the hill
not so far from Spinsterville
perched on one knee
I pop the question: extraordinary
Will you marry me?
Of course
It will mean you have to compromise
How can I compromise myself?

At what age do you become, a spinster?

We are the spinsters hanging in trees
hanging in trees – at 45 degrees
we are the black holes with no line after us
the women who’ve never wed
at us is where the line stops
dead – old vacuum cleaner bags
o yes
there’s one in every family
bone crones covered in stigma and sags
NASTY
eccentric single aunts who spoil their cats and dogs and birds
from their paltry little rooms and thatched roofed houses
ugly crusty lonely barren infertilians
wrinkled dried-up, shrivelled washed-up infertilians
with warts and facial hair
broken down jalopies sans a spare, disintegrating twigs
in sand shoes, the crypto-relic shrews
with painted on eye brows and old lady perfume
left hanging in trees at 45 degrees
looking petrified, like poster girls of a degenerative disease
mummified, the belles without a ring

SNAP!
Old Maid’s become a new parlour game
NOW

We are the Neo-Spinsters
spin-masters, spin-misters, spin-sisters
spinning
with monkeys and motorcycles
surf boards and string bikinis
with shaved heads and tattooed shoulders
gold credit and trips around the world
uptown downbeat, uptown downbeat
snappy spinster girls
we’re the confetti escapers
doin’ it for ourselves
JUICY
We are the Neo-Spinsters
springs in trees
with the spider monkeys and the birds and the bees
in the trees
we’re butterflies perched in protest
we’re Luna with black-belted keys
o yes
we are hanging in the brittle boned forests of families of trees
we are the eyes of the witches that rustle high in their branches

I am the happy Spinster
broom outside my door

According to the Times
I have more, testosterone
women who never marry
are harmoniously scary
SCARY
I am the happy Spinster
broom outside my door

He asked my father for my hand in marriage
we had the dress, the shoes, the carriage
the rings, and the church
when I said:
I’m not gonna iron your shirts
he had a fit
so when we split
I told him to return my hand to my father
matrimony manikin part
and I went to my father
and I asked if I could have my own hand and heart
to have and to hold and to hang
‘till death do I
I do
Do I?
Do
INFELIX DIDO
We are the Neo-Spinsters
we didn’t make our bed
we made our leer jet
and now
we’re just gonna have to fly in it

©Sheri-D Wilson
Re:Zoom, Frontenac House (2005)