August 27, 2010
By , Exeter, NH
The curve of her chin
Is from her years and palms.

The smooth stones of the sea
That were once something else,
They have only forgotten

The stiffness of her hair
Is a laugh against that face.

The sweet sadness of a Hydrangea
A bloom crying out in October,
Too late for it to be

The uneven fold of her lips
Is a suggestion of lying laughs.

A woman who once smiled pink
As her mouth bit truth.
What she always said in windowless rooms,
I am Nothing.

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