by Amy Cavanaugh
Lifeless – she lies on the cold-blooded floor
Like a rug without its warmth and comfort.
Nothing but an old ceiling fan gladly stirs the air
And lets it tap the ends of her still soft hair.
Creaking – the wooden floor beneath my
Chilled feet smells of old tradition.
I creep – tip-toeing in the direction of the white powdered corpse.
The windows watch through their butterfly pastel-colored curtains –
Telling nobody. Although maybe the trees outside also spy and
Share the secret.
I place an almost long finger on her once rosy cheek –
Than another on her once necklace-holding neck.
No pulse. No warmth. Where did they go?
Their carrier must have driven them to some place they
Love because they haven't returned.
They must have taken my confidence with them.
I need it back – badly.
Breathing into her once-lipsticked lips
I notice her once-wide hips.
They've shrunken by now.
Destiny needs to grant her back her life. But how?
I consult my friend Imagination.
Now Age – Once again youthful –
Restores the peachiness in my Femininity's silk of skin.
I restore her lipstick and rosy cheeks.
Imagination restores her necklace –
But only Destiny can restore her delicacy.
And Curiosity can pry open her deep pale blue eyes.
The squeaky door to the long hall of mirrors awaits
Her slow passage.
The windows simply continue to stare in silence –
Wondering if the trees beyond them really do the same.
The butterflies from the curtains almost
Come to life – long enough to flutter
Around Femininity once more.
The fan still stirs the air.
The floor still smells of old tradition.
Last updated August 18, 2012