By Camille Lavache
There was something odd about this girl,
I couldn’t read her mind.
She loves to make her dresses twirl,
Nothing was on her mind.
Someone else’s long tresses swirl in time,
In time, against the time—
The time of that faithful day
When she went to the doctor—
They thought that she had swine,
But she erases that memory and reassures herself that she’s fine.
She lets the memory fall behind the blank matter of her mind.
Her eyes, mirroring every move,
The reflection of every move bouncing off her iris like glass,
A needle injection leads to sunken eyes—
The same eyes that capture the glint of the needle,
A needle made of brass.
That time when she was oh so little—
How could she forget?
She continues to push that memory out,
With no remorse and no regret,
For that time in her life was a painful one.
She cared for as long as time allowed,
But now she cares no more.
She’s proud, she takes a bow.
Her first bow would be her last because the cancer finally spread,
But she’s okay now,
She has accepted her newfound fate.
She knows eventually she’ll be dead.
The dress stops twirling, her mind becomes still,
There’s no expression on her face.
Pale and lifeless, they roll her body on the stretcher right down to the morgue,
Her burial takes place and the pastor stands up,
The silence so loud, it roared.
He bows his head and says a prayer,
He ends with “She’s all right, she’s fine,
But there was just something odd about that girl,
I just couldn’t read her mind.”