Shuttered

Clips roll past, not fast enough
to be dismissed but not long enough
to memorize every eyelash or hip shimmy.
She is all that is feminine, a treasure,
removed yet familiar.

People venerate her walk
but I see her hunched at the dinner table,
listening to a story, almost like me,
except of course she is much better.

She keeps popping up lately- a memory,
story, photo – and I feel I was there,
not reincarnated or a bystander,
but maybe the odd bird
that flew by or perched just long enough
to see her shiny baubles
and how she cried most nights.

Hurt again and again, it is inevitable
we forget ourselves for a moment,
flying high at some kind words
or a bit of attention, erroneously
thinking we are saved.

I can sit hunched at dinner
while stories swirl about, finding
shiny baubles to cover tears of old hurts.
I would rather be held;
that is the secret behind shuttered eyes.