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 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. 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.