Her fingers cast shadow branches across the wooden floor,
as she held them to the light.
Sunspots marred her vision. From the ground she heard whispers:
‘Is it him?’
She convulsed violently on the floor, shaking her way out
of poverty’s iron grip.
Their grief was palpable, hungry, and blind.
They clucked in anticipation as she sprung bolt upright,
head back, eyes rolling. She bellowed,
in the deepest voice she could muster, ‘Yes, darling it is me’.
Dust fell from her like glitter in the sunlight.
She heaved and sweated and sucked all the air right out
of the room, feverish in her deception.
Desperation turns us all into whores.
She heard someone fall to their knees and then a sharp snap
as a coin purse opened. ‘There is no guilt to this duplicity’ she thought, as a
tiny glint of hope reappeared in two eyes made of sorrow.
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