The Lady
Six feet of dreams in winter,
six cold feet of time above her:
the girl whose face you buried
beneath the wrinkles in the mirror.
And you cannot find her there,
though you paint your cheeks
and tint your hair,
for the memory is frozen too
in glasses of iced tea
taken in the afternoon.
Your husband is beside you,
putting back a cocktail
to put down his nerves,
never ceasing to remind you
that your place with him is reserved.
You're stepping on the endings
with each attempt at new beginnings,
with each newfound fancy you pursue.
There are mink furs in the closet
that you never wear,
and I cannot take them from you,
though you want me to,
and though I've tried;
They cannot cover up the whispers
that with musty breath propose,
What if it were me,
what if it were my face that died?
©1999 Elizabeth Hebert
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