In a large house
("mansion" is gauche)
in a well-to-do suburb
(Why is it, we don't say
rich or poor
anymore?)
a brittle, woman
starves herself
to skeletal proportions
(unconsciously aping
that which she abhors).
Her proficiency in shrinking
is unrelated to any
social dilemma or moral crisis.
She does not feel stifled.
She does not feel voiceless.
She has never felt less-than,
or passed-by. Yet, slowly,
she vanishes, eclipsed
by furniture that grows
grander in scale, heavier
day by day: looming trunks,
towers and pillars of rosewood.
(As a casket, her writing desk
would more than suffice.)
"Tuscan," she tells her friends,
drinking espresso with
a paper-thin twist of lemon rind
from tiny bird's egg tazze.
"It's so lush. I'm doing
the entire house
in Tuscan."
(c) 2014, by hannah six
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