PenWomanShip

Right leg over left leg, smiling without teeth, she is tracing the dragging pauses between brood and double-cross.
All in all 10 years.
Someone closing the door.
Someone skipping out.
Adept, her face is a troublesome tribute to a going under. Slice it: she is shoveling gestures across a table.

There, she is crumbling up, rubbing out breath. Hers.
Not being able to stand the lingering smallness in a curious birdcage built of cardboard and twine she adds colorful stuff pinned down under lacy covers and pedigreed
tadpoles.
She makes a go of a cagey pronged prize.

Sets of words made up, within/without
it gets slippery in between songs
living from a script with no forwards on your pages.

Se pushes the belly shadows back
not noticing at first herself captured.
Then packing new bone,
vines begin to grow hungrily again
over players faint and grayed a bit.
Carefully she moves fragments like anger and absence. Substitutes some things you can't see.
Omits some things you can't know.
Adds some things you can't feel.
To the other house that Jack built.
Jack with his cagey minus eyes filling himself full.
Perils carefully packed between the panels.
Until she feels that one bite on the leg.
"Technically" unfaithful.