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She lay in bed for three days and waited

to be collected: back to her safe shades.

A painted face upturned for approval:

distant assent and distant promises.

The sour-lined spouse had arrived, wish and well,

carrying an old manikin and fresh dreams.

She set up and busied herself stitching

stories together about who she was.

Except the tense shifted.  And the present

wasn't attached to the past: had become

threadbare in the zipped journey to repair.

The manikin stared blankly - unsuited.

Outside her bedroom door, a small girl stood

and called out her name.  The door remained closed

to the child left hopeful for kind comfort.

She left behind two plastic butterflies.

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