Wake up, woman.
Pretense is a pseudo-life.
Whatever life-saving dreams
you stored in your bones
along a bias to hide them,
since hiding is better than not,
have evanesced. Gone where?
Curling around old cautions
like vines in an ancient jungle.
And you’re wrong on bones.
Bones chew the fat, spread
secrets like seeds on the run,
anxious for winds to rise.
Gossip lives to take wing,
catches and stitches whatever
floats by. Your life’s dreams
are reassembled. Anything
you thought to hide has rooted,
has overgrown and gone to seed.
The dreams you hid so well
for your bones to hold in trust?
Dreams in smithereens.