It stands lamentably regal on the dusty old armoire in the bedroom.
The woman seems to be dancing to something, skirts twirling around her.
It’s her eyes that caught mine, as if beseeching me to do her bidding.

Around her neck is a chain of twigs that seem to be branding her skin.
Her skirt is tied tightly. Her freedom is a dance, a foot out in front of her
And one arm outstretched. She is eternally ****** yet blessed.

At night I imagine her designing her escape; morning, her resignation.
How easy it should be to undo her ties and remove her chains. I think
Maybe someday, somewhere, she will be free. Whatever that means.