She has been much-misconstrued.
I heard half a rumour
that belied the garden’s colours.
The father’s arm had withered
soon after he came out
of uniform, & never again did he laugh
outright. Would it have killed him?
In part. The daughter was long-dead
of his shame, needing
to walk the lengths but not
daring to ask, each day she lay
ready to be emptied. It
was whatever he contrived
like a thought sunk
in the noise. Knowing enough
of impossibility, she became a line
where a periphery began, but
he could never recover
that most lost of domains,
cast deep into early shade.
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