She pushes out the skin, the flesh and the blood.
She has a dinner party smile, the smile that all the others
wish they had.
She is no belle of the house and no high-heeled, typing Athena.
She is carrying stones, one by one.
She wishes for a category or box
for her days, slipping away like
all the rest.
He, the thumbprint on heaven and earth, whispers to her:“Beloved,” he says.