Hidden in an 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 saints and scholars.
Below knuckles needed more.
To knead, to Knock, to knit.
Beneath fancy notions,
the remains of professional progression;
disappeared by the Marriage Bar
before being discovered by a passerby
along the shoreline of her ambition years later
To be 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.
As useful as iodine tablets
in the event of a nuclear attack
from the prospect of another mouth to feed.
Resting at the bottom of a brandy urn,
the ashes of financial autonomy
occasionally stirred with a swirl
before she washes down the bittersweet
pill of freedom and toasts our himdependence.