Candace Polishes the Silver

Self-satisfied at how her hand has swept
the tarnish from the heirloom of her heart,
she thinks of how she held him, how she wept,
and how she cried when they were miles apart.
So clean, the caustic rub, the gentle rag
has wiped the stain of memory away
from silver cups and spoons kept in a bag,
contained for once-a-year or cleaning day.
Reflection is distorted in the curve
of her perception, held without remorse,
as light becomes a token to observe;
she lets the reminiscence run its course.
Then, satisfied the silver bears no trace
of love, she puts it safely in its place.

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