Each day she dies a little more
Leans harder on the doorway, and her face grows tired.
Her hair sighs limply.
Her heart has sagged below common usage,
Not dead yet, but deferred
Until the spring shall come –
A spring too long in coming.
Pain has turned to numbness, and the thresh of words
Pricks the old wounds to little drops of blood:
One more thing she must wipe up of the floor
Lest any see her shame.
Her smile has been long-practiced, but the edges leak
The corroding bitterness of silence
Burning slow holes in her children’s hearts
While she tries to give a love she has not known.