InvisibleSnow

She has a mouth on her, that woman down the street with the magpie eyes and the skin that shrinks away from touch. She's a firework, that woman with the ramrod spine: she says she doesn't need a man and two joined hands at the altar are two hands wrapped in chains. They murmur about her, those women up the road - in the grocery, at the bank - painting whispered targets on her turned back. They are caged birds, she says: silent slaves in their own homes tucking helpless husbands into bed and wiping liquor-stained kisses from their lips. She lives outside of their boxes, that woman with warnings splashed over her skin. She