She calls it a "do."
She had, she says, a bit of a "do."
And in that short word,
Accompanied with the wide eyes
That see everything but the room we are now in,
There is everything else she has been through.
Other rooms, with locks on the outside,
With bars on the windows,
And check-ups every half-hour.
Other times, with weighted seconds
Holding back the hours
Except when they all came at once,
The minutes rushing at her,
Especially those she had already lived through.

She calls it a "do."
A bit of a "do."
And how can I not admire her for it?
Because I have my own word for it.
And it is still a very long way
From something I could ever pronounce
So lightly.


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