that she, whose hiding place has always been words;
her solace and tender back-of-hand-to-cheek caresses
found in creased pages of musty books;
that she, should find words spoken
so empty and devoid of promise.
An almost undetectable snarl of her upper lip,
shaking her head,
knowing it is all meaningless-
just sounds without connection.
She retreats again to words,
running her fingers over yellowed paper;
the closest thing she has to home.
Shannon McMorland Foley
