What Was Her Name?


Who was she?

A tall thin girl singing at the pulpit
stopped being herself, unable to drive to work,
step out of her house; clutched
curtains, locked her bedroom door.

Another Sunday, her young husband, also tall,
sat on the stage, his fingers on the strings
of his guitar.  Who was to know?

The marriage upended.

Now here’s a woman
with the same first name, and maybe last,
if I could remember.  Thinner.
Is taller possible? Red lipstick.
Straight hair waved.
Hush rush rustle of her silk dress.

So she didn’t die?
Didn’t disappear, wasn’t taken to the hospital,
turn right at the blue sign in the woods?
She sings, songs still in her life.
New husband.  Chubby black-haired son
with square black glasses, looks out of place beside her.
Is he hers?

Her “situation,” no name for it,
whispered about at church,
must be under control,
or she was always someone else,
carrying the problem, another’s mirror, mirror.


Is it her?  I won’t ask.

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