The map of veins looked unnatural
cooped up on her calico lap. Those
wiry hands seemed more at ease
out back, doing something constructive,
like beating a rug.
Lord knows, I never saw her toes.
Virginal feet cocooned in lace-up
granny shoes, small, like bound Chinese,
they never found a splinter, or a jitterbug.
Every hair in place, the dishes always clean,
she was a little fish, encased forever
as a paperweight, buried in a bungalow,
jilted by a lover.
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