She giggled and turned
another page in the glossy magazine.
Hours spent dreaming, primping
planning, preening
pining for a life
not her own.

Tossing curls of auburn,
familiar voice
from behind closed door.
“Get off that banister,
practice your oboe!”
Not her joy.

Constant reminder, she
alone – insufficient to tackle
the daunting or desirable –
all reserved for another
more suitable than she.
Not her choice.

“And, what do you think?”
Fear! Confusion!
Heartbeat furious –
no one ever asked.
Mangled syllables stammering
not her words.

Desperate, her mind screams
for evidence of depth,
hours of systematic pondering
now shrouded
in silent confinement –
just her luck.

Derision laced snarl,
eyes of smoldering ember,
“I cannot bear the quiet.
The dull. The useless.”
Desperate scramble; what she found was
not her voice.

Anguished face
behind cascading
mane, hidden from
external curiosity, steps
mincing, eyes flinching, surely this was
not her world.

Nighttime clocks, evening frocks,
relentless staccatos disrupting
inherent streams of light and dark,
endless clamor mocks
with taunting tedium that now
seemed her lot.

Ah the terror of exits missed,
doors blocked, boats rocked,
dreams deferred, hopes dimmed,
life gone dark, sounds muted,
mere existence entombed in gray –
not her wish.

Lunar cycles remind of
bygone eras, earlier
seasons pocked with pain
and adorned with promise –
vanished beneath bewilderment,
beyond her grasp.

photo credit: theglobeandmail.com
© Julia Penner-Zook, 2015


4 thoughts on “Her

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