Broken
The aluminum shingles of the trailer
are bent, uneven, black; mildew
is now part of the structure,
the aged door on rusty hinges lies
silent, and shards of broken glass
silhouette the window:
mine
home,
sanctuary.
A quarter smile on her ebony face,
on her wrinkled lips, parched,
a single message clutched
against the jacket and
mismatched shirt and pants
that protect her body from the cold.
Her sneakers are torn and untied;
she has forgotten
fashion, colors, comfort,
bubble baths before bed,
pot roast for dinner,
champagne for a toast; she’s
weary
sluggish
disheveled.
She knows it’s coming, but she’s not
afraid. She fears him more, he who had
gone, discarded her. She lowers herself
on the worn-out rocking chair
and closes her eyes,
broken.
Alexandra Alessandri 