She hasn't said three words to me yet.

She bows her head to rest in hands

pale and smooth, closes eyes

that seem to have spent years awake.

I watch the halo of her hair,

a cloud of chaff around her shoulders,

follow the paths of capillaries,

purple rivers just beneath wax-paper skin.

There's nothing I can do

to help her today.

At last we set aside third-grade math,

go separate ways without goodbyes.

As I leave I glimpse her by the door,

standing tiptoe on a cracked plastic chair,

her whole body stretched toward the ceiling lights,

poised and hollow, not ready to fly.

Copyright (c) 2000 by Beth Kinderman. This is my original work, so please respect it.