i.m. Diane Pretty

They lead me (nervous and suited)

to the living room. She's all

peachy-toed and Rimmel redmouthed

smiles. Machines grind

and wink, but if you listen with care

you can hear that her body

is ticking, then cracking and oozing

out her liquid life, onto the carpeted floor.

She is now an interpreter of silence,

can read the walls’ unease,

reveal why the silvery sounds of dawn

rasp just for her. She is aware

that she is being edited, imperceptibly

nibbled by tiny fish, and contracting

down to this verse, this line

in the papers I am Diane, help me.