so much had collected in the misery

 

she was that
renumeration
 

she thought of
the very first time
when she had swollen until
she could not see
 

her fingers
unexpectedly loud
at the end of her
trembling hands
 

she heard nothing
someone
 

she should
remember
 

the red-hot fire
the blue and cream tiles
the room unrecognizable
and slurred
again

 
she
had
to be
alone

 

soundlessly
 

once she laughed
into the air

 

 

 

source — ‘pointed roofs’ by dorothy miller richardson

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