Your ghost saunters into our classroom, laced up
to the neck in Victorian grace. You take your seat
in the back, wearing an air of despair that fills the room
like some floral perfume,
and you watch with wide eyes as thoughtful students lament
that you had no choice; you, a pretty prisoner, cooped up in her Creole mansion,
suffocated by her husband, trapped in her dress--
don't they see you back there?
Basking in your sorrowful scent?
-Lucy Biebel
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