La Marâtre

She Stands.

The scars shine in the sunset, witnesses of what was endured.

She was not the first wife, and the air around her still holds that truth.

And perhaps because of this,
her steps are careful, her laughter rare,
her solitude shaped by years of quiet observation.

But her skin carries a story.

The scars upon her chest were cut when she was still a girl.

That silence was her first act of pride,
her first act of strength.

Now she stands before her house,
the sunset catching the marks that remain.
They are not decorations,
but proof that she can bear what must be borne.

She keeps the doorway swept,
the fire breathing through the night,
and though jealousy flares like wind on dry grass,
her presence is steady,

rooted.