Magdalene looks from the window
into the dark. Things have been
promised, secrets kept, lies maintained.
Hands washed, dried, open curtains,

hold the cloth, the patterned flowers.
She sees no stars or moon, no galaxies
beyond, just the deep dark. If she steps
back she can see her reflection, the pink

dress, the pale face, black fringe of hair,
blackberry eyes. She can mouth words,
utter silent swear words, lips motion
them, but none hear. All is forbidden,

or so it seems, the parents marking the
boundaries, punishing trespassing, both
in unison, he scornful and hard of hand,
the mother sharp of tongue can cut her

through, telling her where she can go
and what to do. Magdalene can drink in
the deep dark; can swallow mouthfuls
of emptiness like a greedy child, silent,

staring, becoming slowly rebellious,
becoming wild. She can pull odd faces in
the dark reflecting glass, poke out a tongue,
say silently all the words that they forbid,

outlaw that she is in her pink dress and white
pull up socks. He has his ways, his finger
against his lips, swearing her to secrecy,
things done, not told about or spoke of,

kept between the four walls of her room
and confines of her bed. The deep dark
stares back, the starless skies, lost moon.
They’ll come back soon, the mother to their

bedroom, giggling and laughter, he calling
for Magdalene, his voice shallow, his growing
along the walls, shadow. She sighs, waits, wonders
if, beyond the deep dark, some other life exists

for her, some other plan in later years will come
to pass, when he doesn’t enter her or beat her ***.