Saving Herself
March 22 2008


Behind drawn blinds
in a cool dark place
she sits,
ageing gracefully.
Her face is perfectly white,
unwrinkled, unlined.
She rarely smiles,
no crow’s feet twinkling her eyes
no laugh lines to give her away.
She is a porcelain doll
a Chinese courtesan
a painted paper-mache;
and no one would ever guess her age.

Even an albino child ventures out to play,
in a floppy hat and tinted glasses when afternoons grow late
or on overcast days in winter.
But she refuses to risk even a hint of sun
— saving herself,
saving face.
Which she fears as others do
a fatal sickness
or a high-speed collision
head-on.

Her skin is not so much white, as translucent;
a network of fine blue veins,
the flutter of blood in her neck,
and eyelids like thin wet paper.
And then full red lips,
a startling glimpse
of colour.

Neither has she spoken for years,
saving her voice as well.
So her vocal cords are smooth, glistening,
the tissues of her throat full and supple,
and her unrehearsed tongue
clumsy.
I imagine she still sounds like a little girl,
speaking of innocent things
in a high pure voice.

She will live forever, this way,
confined to this cool dark place
mute and immoveable.
Or perhaps, she’s already near death;
as close to living in fear
as one gets.