Her eyes sheen with a broken purpose,
a wine glass slipped and shattered.
Freckled, flimsy wrinkles a sea of nude
to mask pulsing veins.

Selma and her pink gum-lips,
pressed into thin wisps of
worry, from 90 goddamn years of surviving this world.

We pray because she’s sick for love,
We pray because love’s the only way.

In the end, emotion drawls on one long note.
Sings of the power of the powerless.
Her hands search the child’s
for answers which sink in an empty vacuum of memory.
As the young girl pleads inside to be anywhere else,
she holds her melancholy heart in silent limbo.