Woman Under Glass

It’s all about the hands

how they weep

as they peel away layers

of an undisciplined life.


How my eyes fumbled

with that rotten, rusting lock

that once held me captive

like a delectable pheasant;

brilliantly seasoned, yet

too beautiful to eat.


My hands pounded the sea

desperate to reach shore

while always managing to tread water

just out of saving distance from

other hands more experienced;

more willing to sacrifice than my

own. Still, what better sacrifice

than the poet who struggles to

abandon her craft in order to save

her family from drowning?


What better sacrifice in deed

than to place her poems under glass

to be admired, longed for, but

never tasted?


It’s all about the hands

and a husband’s courage

to release the poems that

pulled me onto the shore.


It’s all about the death of an onion

that once stood between us

and the husband

who understands

that my hands will not


be severed

from the poetry

that feeds them.


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