Captor’s Hands

too late to change the face
of it in moments left agape
to chance; the shape of it
has changed in trance-like
penury outstayed 

her voice is thinly guised in 
cries that neither bruise nor
criticise the way you care; she
knows you’re there forever
and a day 

she lies awake embracing 
tears she’ll weep while you
are held to ransom by her
eyes – she smiles and waves
her flippant captor’s hands
© 17 August 2009, I. D. Carswell