as I worship the interpretation

received as a letter, authorship witheld:

Once upon a perfect moment, stretched & bent & folded
in half & sewn end-to-end, when the stars were in faultless
accord & the world turned with dignity & solemn grace,
when even cruelty was polite, even cynicism holy, a girl
with flowers in her hair & a song on her lips drilled a
hole through her liily white palm & stared out through it
at all the ugliness that lay beyond.


She turned away, as all things turned, with effortless
elegance, her skirts sweeping through rose petals &
crisp autumn leaves, blood dripping from her fingers
like the final notes of Libera Me, & in her wake the
shocked silence was worn away be birdsong & the
thoughtful murmur of the trees.


She turns again, later, with long-practiced unpracticed
grace, not away but in a wide, slow circle, arm
out-stretched to display the hole, larger in its setting
of pearl white scar, partially obscured by delicate
metacarpals. The gathered crowd stares in fascinated
horror, & when she bows the applause is exuberant.

She does not do an encore. There is no second act.

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