Klimt, Gustav . The Three Ages of Woman . 1905

The Life of My Black Iron Bed My black iron bed quilted in down. I rest upon it, my mind circles round. I imagine you draped in chenille night after day as you welcomed them in, tucked them away to dream. Who bought you brand new? And was it you who witnessed virginity lost? The child-bride of yesteryear became a woman with a single tear. The pain hurt so good, it was most understood twas the act of consumation. Was it upon you the passion burned? So hot the flame, holding on to your frame they came alive with desire. Was it upon you a child was conceived? Within the child-bride it was soon believed in her belly, beautiful and round- was life. Was it upon you, my black iron bed the mother-to-be lay with rags on her head? The pain hurt so good, she knew that it would. The worth of birth- priceless. Was it upon you a child lay still with a chill from a fever, so ill, bathed in the will to survive the epidemic? But was it you who saw in middle age, the turning page after page; the couple reading by kerosene, each in a world content and serene. Was it you who began to creak with the bones of the man and his wife? Inevitable in the life of a black iron bed. As though spoken and said- "I am old." Was it upon you an old man lay still? Not shaking the chill from a fever, so ill. Leaving his lifetime resting place the color of ash all over his face. Was it you who held the widow in a fetal position; moving into transition-- adult to child? The pain hurt so good and naturally it should to leave a lifetime of rest on tiny wheels of wood. ©1998 Peggy Putnam Owen Home