I forbade them to speak to each other
across the quarrel of edges that is this box.
I have enough knots to untangle. I hear
stilettos scrape the floor as they pirouette,
for an audience holding its breath.

To thwart the next step, I could refuse
to move a corpuscle. Every escape has drawbacks—
last minute wing-beats in the ears, a lung
collapsed or drowning. The women, black-veiled,
would turn to each other with proof that my exit
had not been easy, and with a rattle of keys,
break down all the locks I had put between us.

© 2005 by Cheryl Snell. All rights reserved.