Is she you or me or all
of us when we are
lonely, isolated from the world
of the living lying far beyond
our reach? We struggle,
drag, and claw, helpless crabs
prowling for the ocean.
Art spectators mesmerized by
this vulnerable girl flung into the pinching
and pricking weeds the color of whites
after laundering with darks or the batter
of a recipe gone wrong. Monochromatic
colors invade the murky, unmemorable
anytown New England.
Her dress is pink-blushing,
life where none exists: hinting
at health and happiness not enjoyed.
Her legs sprawled
in a lifeless pose.
A slight, sheepish
light - a timeworn wedding band - encircling
the dilapidated farmhouse: her promised land.
But she never gains ground:
Devoured - like the true colors
of paint mixed in rinse water - by
the bleakness. The sky, the color of
city snow: the farm -
a tomb to engulf her.
(c)Martha V. Maurno
published in Skipping Stones 2004
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