Exhaustion

She should not be here, on this jagged
rock in the woods, dry dirt below,
housing the miniature crawlers
of her nightmares. Her pencil-skirted knees
glued to each other while her high-
heeled feet are two north
magnets. Her hair, God, her hair
no longer shines as yesterday –
newly freed from curlers and irons and brushes –
but is dry as her cotton-heavy
mouth. All that remains
is the red lipstick, still fresh,
still pulsing, still neat, outlining
her open mouth, caught in a sob
but not taking or freeing air. Cupped
palm to her moistened forehead, the refrain
spills from her lips again and again:
“I’m so tired, I’m so tired. God, I’m so
tired.”