in month seven of the pandemic.
So long left without ornament
they were sealed shut against
shiny blue stones from Sedona.
Soon after, I realised
all my clothes are costumes
for the games of make-believe
that go on outside my house.
So who am I, when I’m not playing?
Behind my mask I dwindle,
cast off non-essentials,
lipstick and lunchtime gossip –
wonder will I emerge
some smooth skinned cipher,
shorn of adornment
a mute maiden with white hair
and a fear of crowded spaces?
Or is there an elemental self
this time is excavating?
I can’t tell; on good days, I can hope so.
May she shine as solidly
as blue stones from Sedona.
