Just The Frame

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Once so beautiful, wilful, mild.
Happy at the trot
from one cup of tea to the next.
A guileless discontent.
It’s all still there
but under a grey coat of paint.
Her brain’s in despair.
Her hate has caught her up.
Stubborn.
At thirty had her teeth ripped out,
though Dad said ‘Not.’
Killing herself
and why shouldn’t she?
Her eyes flash murder.
My life to maim if I like.
Under the grapefruit tree she stops suddenly,
one hand on her clothes basket
on its rusty iron frame.

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