The Dirt

by Cindy Adame

The cold no longer touched her
even when he did
she’d moved beyond his ego
straight into her id.
Buried under layers
of his dead, damp earth
suffocating darkness lay
in place of home and hearth.

He called it love, she
learned how to parrot words
best not to stir the monster
but emulate the bird.
Polly wants a cracker
just not across her face
though these were always followed
by his most sincere embrace.

The public had proclaimed
she was his perfect paramour
with paparazzi swooning
over every dress she wore.
They dug into her life
but completely missed the dirt.
Preferred to blather on about
the labels on her skirt.

Behind the iron curtain
of her frozen, placid face
she used to keep a candle lit
when she’d believed in grace.
The flame soon surrendered
to the airless atmosphere
and left behind a waxen form
a doll of adipocere.

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