She Is (Constance Poem 3)
She is not what she seems Her life is not contained in that heart-shaped box placed upon a glass table given to her in charity, filled with tools to build oblivion She is sister to one stashed behind iron bars for chasing dreams of wealth; she is daughter to two who dreamed of a quiet suburban life for her She is not sitting on a mattress beside me, poised to light up both of our lives into sacrificial smoke that conceals all pain from us She is one who once carefully arranged garments to clothe her dolls; she is not the one who dons layers of cloth & down, preparing for a mission into the chilly evening streets of her desolate neighborhood to trade dollars into oblivion for her and me She is one who once delivered hope to the desperate; she is needing warmth and tenderness; with my arms around her, she speaks of lonely desolation She is not what she seems: sitting behind a table strewn with the paraphenalia of oblivion for her and me I hold her chilled and swollen hands for a moment, and in my shame, contemplate who she is Written February 14th, 2002 © on Feb 14 2002 02:36 AM PST 10 • 0
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"She is..."