The woman is blank. Flattened.
There is no softness here.
She is defeated. Quietly,
She moves to the white
sheet. Her lids slide shut.
Behind there is nothing;
just shattered green,
shattered green
Dreams are for fools, for young.
There is no child suckling,
no husband petting.
Nobody will want such clarity.
She is ice that burns the tongue
Her edges slice cleanly
a blade that sinks to a tomato
the line of it even and straight
the juice beading and seeping
a straight line of grief.
Everything is in order.
The dishes washed
The laundry folded.
papers organized,.
Nothing is left undone.
She is ice cold and perfect;
silent as a statue.
The crowd applauds, pleased.
They got their money’s worth.
