a mystery, this sad girl
her inner workings cloistered
she retreats to the corner
aloof, withdrawn, quiet
she sits apart
stands apart
all of her
body
mind
creaking to a halt
she is no longer a well-oiled machine
with all gears
functioning smoothly
moves in slow motion
load the clothes
empty the dryer
fill the dishwasher
her spark is snuffed out
fire smothered by sand
she struggles for freedom
gaining strength to rise
her life’s façade a trompe-l’oeil
fooling everyone except
the most vigilant observer
—Irene Fridsma
