quicksilver goddess

History’s most misunderstood woman

smiles softly in the shadows

of a silent Sunday,

chafed from being a

refugee from responsibility.

She’s afraid she’s not

much of a hit with men.

She doesn’t laugh at their jokes.

She doesn’t find most of what

they say particularly funny.

She finds it irksome.

Although she laughs at Hamlet.

Those who know her well say

her silences are more eloquent

than her spoken word.

And those who know her

peripherally

say she rolls her eyes too much

whenever she’s frustrated.

She doesn’t care,

though,

on this silent Sunday

because she’s sprawled

across her bed,

relaxed with pep,

waiting for someone

to lie next to and

searching for a balance

between brutality and banality

with both eyes closed.