Henna Song

She sang a song like henna:
Thin and red,
It climbed up from the ground.
Up my legs in vines,

Punctuated by curls of
Wet dyes.
I felt the paint brush,
Cool and submissive to my arm.

And her song decorated me,
With imprints of marriage,
The blood of the blooms,
Which die for ceremony.

Her words were stained
With henna blood from marriage.
And no color left beneath the dye.
For its vines had clutched her throat,
Like a ring on a finger.