a woman looking out the armhole of her dress,
her hair cut off in the sink—she can’t stand
it when her bangs aren’t even.
she has been asleep for years, absent from her
job as courtyard statue. she hides the lines etched
in her face, hides them from the bathroom mirror.
she almost vanishes into tepid water, standing for
days, to be suddenly released on memory’s abyss.
her past is the painted shell that never surfaces.
the woman is immune to time.
her eyes are red from browsing through the aisles
of the public library. she resists invention.
she can’t recall her lavish silhouette, quit
for years. she expects to read about it
in a stack of yellowed newspapers.
her mother’s arms return to wipe her down.
she remains the desolate spot on the countertop,
the window streak that manages to escape notice.
how the wind experiments with her hair tangles.
how it firmly grips her burdened waist, grazes
her white knuckles. she is the eliminated container.