Wrung out, squint-eyed
she is completely given over
to the needs of others, she is
succor, drained one dollar bill
after another, shallow breath
slipping into plain brown,
she wants it quiet, no music.
If anger simmers, she is
frustrated fury, delusional,
convinced they talk about her
every move- when she's good...
but on an off night, she ends up
alone in her car at the bookstore
parking lot, eating onion rings.
The voices in her head whine, click
and tally the hours spent stamping fires,
the conspiracy to downplay damage,
she has shake the mulberry trees
to reckon memory, reach deep,
smell saltwater and the dinkum oil,
tell the story true as it can be told.