I sat with Priscilla’s friend

In the late Sunday shadows,

I didn’t know her well but

We discovered to our horror

That we share a weird, yet persistent conformity…

Embracing the 1950’s model of what it means to be a wife-

Basically to cheer “him” endlessly

Even when your best friend has died

Leaving you cold and wanting of comfort yourself.

What’s wrong with this picture, we found ourselves asking?

It’s all in asking the right question

That the ball of string begins to untangle

Ready to fly her kite come spring.