In the unmarked grave in her head
the foetus of a formal education aborted by back room absolutists.
Lying in repose in the tips of her fingers, the budding writer
Gunned down by guardians of scholars and saints.
Below knuckles needed more to knead, to Knock, to knit.
Beneath fancy notions, her ambitions of professional progression
Disappeared by the Marriage Bar before being discovered by a passerby
Along the shoreline of her hopes years later and given the dignity of burial.
Encased in her top drawer behind discontinued perfumes and lilac scarves no longer worn
the slim body of a thermometer. Useful as iodine tablets in the event of a nuclear attack
against the prospect of another mouth to feed.
Resting at the bottom of a brandy urn, the ashes of financial autonomy
Stirred occasionally with a swirl before she washes it down
The bittersweet pill of freedom
And toasts our himdependence.