the truth is a bomb and the blast
is a woman standing in front of a man with red lipstick marks
where she could be fixed up pretty and brightly
could be made brand new,
a cellophane covered easter basket shining with glitters and bows
just a vessel to hold eggs, to hold their growth, to burst forth
she knows she is not worthy of a sunday morning
that he unwraps her every day and does not find a gift
but just another thing that
occupies too much
of his very limited
space