Only yesterday I went to the opera house,
and swept myself off my feet
with all the romances that could happen,
and have.

Tomorrow I will visit the Musée du Parfum,
because I liked that novel
about the murderer.

Storybook city, singing softly in the rain,
there is nothing I really want to do
but walk alone with my black umbrella.

Tongue in the floor of my mouth,
the gutter shows my lips turned black
from all the ink in all the newspapers
I do not understand.

Coming here, the toll was my voice.
I cast it into the ocean as I crossed over,
watched it twist like silk in the wind,
going home.

A wide-eyed mute, I tie my laces
and wander without words but the ones
in my head, calling ‘courage, heart of glass,
for this is not the end.’

D’accord. This is what it will be,
and I am almost myself again,
in scuffed shoes and a dress
I wore at sixteen.

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© Deanna Scutt, 2017

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