her words

November 30, 2012 § 4 Comments

she
laying
on the grass
beside the reproduction
of a roman god,
he
looking down at her
with his arms extended

palms up and fingers splayed
like he was waiting for
an answer
but she had not a
single one for him

some impoverished
relationship with
the things she tried to say
kept her words
hidden in
colored paper,

wrapping,
torn once from gifts that
were, over time,
discarded
as if they
were nothing more than
amulets drained of their magic

she warehoused
her words,
like
porcelain from
a lost dynasty
waiting to be
unveiled under soft
lighting
and handled with
the gloved hands
of the truly
caring

2012 Fred Whitehead

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