I.
She sits alone
& reads.
And
cries.
just beyond the quilting circle.
she stares out the window & he
he stares at her.
she thinks of the travel writer
who asked if she’d be joining her in Morocco.
II.
we'd have been great friends - thought the
same, politically.
she brought that up,
not me - that would have been
unprofessional.
III.
he says that I’m a Matisse.
I have always been prettier
In his paintings
IV.
She smells him
where? On her skin?
guilty.
V.
a cold shock from underneath
it enters almost unnoticed
like
lengths of cobweb
a womb
slowly dropping
as if fingers draw her
in
she's
no stake in this
she's
untethered
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