We wait
we are so very pretty
in our waiting.
Cross your fingers,
hold your breath,
remove your
eyes.
There is a gnawing in my cheeks which
never stops, it is keeping sound
with the rippling in my
water glass, it is
waiting for the other
shoe to drop.
And as the sky turns to blood
and trickles down the insides
of my thighs like
sandpaper before the wallpaint
even dries,
we do believe
what we are told.
Sitting for portraits,
sitting for decades, sitting for
no one.
We are so very pretty
growing old.
.
.
Allison Marie Conway 