She wears her
words like a wimple,
starched and
confining,
they rarely
engender dialog,
The black serge
flowing
to the floor
measures
each syllable
for its
suitability
in the moment,
stewardship of
expression.
Her underskirts
cover
the slip of the
tongue
the intimacy of
feeling
the unguarded
response
of a woman more
nearly human.
But the pointed
toes
of the
serviceable shoes
punctuate the
sense
of a mind
trained
in precision not
fluency.
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