She has married him so thoroughly, she'll never get away.
Her poise has gone to build him up to a break-even status.
All her friends who have admired her, now find empathy
for what fraction of a future she has carved apart
from an intention. She has married someone's leftovers.
A life of consequences someone else once seeded. She
used to be a self, and now that entity is integer, as
multiplied, divided as a child just learning the impossible
arithmetic that becomes their lives. She patches over
an inferior material and wears it in whatever weather
comes. She has clocked in hours and batched together
particles of happiness in past tense. Amnesia turns
to sacrament. She opens every window to look out on
what was possible. She rehearses her capacity to hold
still. To be held.
Deflection of the source of fear, a prior seeming justice
Sheila E. Murphy
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