Poem for Her

She looks like the time I drove through L.A.
I had seen it all before
in movies, pictures, live feeds from
the cut throat red carpet.
All the people were actors
and the grass wasn't green, like it is back east.
It was dying with clown make up,
desperate happiness on a corpse.

She stands by the window, waiting,
with jigsaw pieces of the sky in her eyes and chest,
waiting.
for me to come assemble her into what she believes she is.
what she remembers herself as
years ago.
before
the bad things.

But I have my own enigma to solve.
bland dull edged pieces of
uniform color
that never fit together,
that presents no picture.
My life in cornflake relief,
no matter how it's arranged
there is nothing to see.
I end up sniffing the glue,
damning the creation of color,
and crushing the parts that don't assimilate
into the mass.

When it rains I think of her standing
framed by oak molding and turbid glass
waiting for my hands to sort her.

I worry that what I see as disingenuous is her in truth
crying for help,
that I just can't believe.