You can see her

I edited a bunch of my work in a writing class I took last semester. Here is one.

You can see her,

On an aisle in the supermarket,

As she fills up her cart with the things that

Consume her life.

What’s for dinner?

The bathroom is a mess.

What have you been doing all day?

 

You can see her,

In her living room,

Her eyes darting

From the clock on the wall,

To the door.

From the clock on the wall,

To the door.

From the clock on the wall,

To the door

That won’t be opening

Till her eyes

have closed.

You can see her,

Counting quarters

On the light fabric of an old ironing board.

While her dollar bills,

Still

Wet

From her sweat

Are neatly tucked

On the ass of a pair of sweaty lingerie.

You can see her,

Sturdily

Washing lipstick off a collar,

while her own lips remain unmoving.

uncolored.

unsmudged.

You can see her on the sidewalk,

With her gentle smiles,

And subtle waves

And bruises from banged doors

She says.

You can see her.

The pretty little vase

That cracked.

The kitchen knife plunged,

Blood spewing,

And life drifting

From the heart

that

never

quite

beat

for her.

You will see her,

The woman who gave it all

For love.

And the men who

Could not give a damn.

 

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