(confessions of a silent witness)

I can tell
just by looking at her
all the wounds
she will not show.

I can see
that raisin-painted lips
draw a smile
that's a curtain of grace.

If not concealed,
her pain or unhappiness
will make her find
- closed doors
- battened down windows.

" Remember, remember:
not a single wrinkle,
no trace of authority,
not a voice that's impatient,
no sign of expectation."

I can see
just by looking at her
if it's a good day
to play the role.

I can tell
if her hair's shiny enough
to be met
with a tender smile.

Then he comes in,
he never asks,
thinks he's pure,
a soul that gives.

When he stands next to her
puts his hand on her arm,
I see what he's waiting for:
the smooth sparkle of approval.

Then, he looks ahead,
always anxious
to be the taller one,
the one in control.

As I reflect
their static image,
I reveal the pain in her,
of knowledge veiled.

I am the wordless witness,
her mirror that knows
how badly it hurts
to show her as less.