Opaque

Her mother pried,
her father harped and criticized,
the priests undressed her soul.

To outwit them, she became opaque.
Her curtained eyes gave off no luster.

At concealment, she became a master.
Flab hushed the language of the body
and kept her essence sealed.

Her body bloated but her voice grew small.
She sugared it with nicety.

She squashed all authenticity.
No blushes. No tears.
Silent laughter, a covered mouth.

See how she sits with her feet tucked under her!
Most hours of the day, she sits.

Her hands she keeps folded whether she is praying or not.
It is like being manacled.

No one asks about plans or interests.
Ask her. She will say Anesthetist.

Unconsciousness! This is her destiny—
in sterile robes, to usher the sick to Morpheus.

She will be ready.
In the methods of stupor, she will be wise.
She is apprenticing even as she sits before us:
corpse-still, crypt-quiet, with unlit eyes.