Monday, December 27, 2010

In Search of Lost Times (The New Yorker)

In Search of Lost Times

She lay with her eyes closed,
Head back against the edge.
She sang in an errant, unidentifiable tune.
Lifting her arms one by one,
Cleaning between her breasts and her legs.

She was crying
As if silence trumped pain.

“Beautiful girl,
Are you mad?”

She was always tempered by disappointment.
She’d just stand,
Hands on hips, facing the emptiness.
Her dirty, pretty smell still hung in the air.

She looked pretty lying there,
Lying asleep,
Like the illustration of Sleeping Beauty.

Her mind wandered.
In that peaceful oblivion,
Divorced from the feelings that usually plagued her,
Unworried about what she looked like in her homemade clothing
Or what others thought of the girl with invisible wounds.

You can see her counting the minutes
Until she can get the hell out of there.

It’s not easy to see something destroyed.

She disappeared.
She was torn from her dreams.

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