You are in the backyard
handfasted to the image
of my spectral retelling;

a tale told from the chewed
lips of a child with hair down
her back, wearing a long skirt,

pretending to be someone she is not,
all the while hyperaware of the open windows,
and agonizing over would be caught glances

from those she wants not to see her.
She has always been afraid of being seen.
Always neglecting herself;

exalting practical ramification, she is often thunderous,
weep-holed, titan-haired, conundrum, yet you hold her
elbow so strongly; as a stiff father might turn his head

to a child splashing in the surf of a troth;
pools of saliva bursting on the sky line,
and still the birds sing and nag like older women,

and she finds herself sought,
though not really, merely an
illusion to objectification –

once she said she should become a prostitute –

all in the Formica oubliette,
and starry-eyed;

she had forgotten, in her own retelling
of the delicacy of the bone tied
with silk string to the barren muscle.