The Perfect Pattern

I lived in an area where the girls would get married so young and then men treated women as a possession rather then an equal. Some were almost planned and not by choice. I felt sorry for them.

She floats inside the store In sun dried linen clothes Petite childish hands delicately Fingering china, flatware and crystal Eyes full of pristine white hope Searching so meticulously for that One perfect pattern That will last A lifetime Seemingly so knowledgeable Seemingly so attuned Seemingly so sure And in the reflection in the Oneida soup spoon I see a Twisted look on her face Of what fate will bring To that special day That she will later call her hell