S
She puts upon herself her outside face
she cannot see outside her inside face
in that holding mirror
streaked with gold and moss
inside her outside face she
weeps, the old ache of such subtle pain
she could never name, only ever blame.
It was me who killed you her old eyes say
as if to tame these same old tears.
But floods of rain reveal themselves and speak
of all the things she forgot, lame laughter in a many seated
sitting room
waiting for the rain to clear,
yet she cannot see outside her inside face
or wear again her outside face
or run away again.
