To look at her

you’d never think she was the sort

to hide a flask

in a sock drawer.

To need a snort

before bedtime

twice a week; to

wake up sweating

because she dreamed

of a house she

lived in when she

was only twelve.

Why would such a girl cry herself

to sleep when nothing

but sunshine wakes

her, while memories stick to eyelids, 

pooling softly

between flesh and spirit? How much

can we know

of anyone, as

the sun rises,

sleeps, and rises

Eastcalling the

good world awake, 

and people to

put their dreams to bed.

Days end; worlds spin. 

Sadness comes and goes. Yet on

Sunday mornings

she pulls on

her boots and walks

to church to sing.

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