The day death came, she saw

A moth holding court

In the corner of the room, a flickering

Sepia shadow, muted

Whispers from the nearby

Ether where her God

Was waiting.

And it fluttered flighty

Morse code, signals of

Transition and how to slip

Behind the veil; softly,

Softly in the fading of

Presence, the evaporating

Senses, she found it

Her silken sunbeam, ...

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The strands of us all

lived in a tassled green pouch,

bound by thread and bloodline.

The house that held it

still holds my softest days

in dream sequence;

of them all, slow Sunday afternoons

out back, in the care of hands

that performed miracles -

a table for my dolls to dine,

a wardrobe for their clothes,

a seesaw solid enough

for every one ...

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She said

I seemed brighter and

I was that day,

that week,

but my brightness

had a lid on it

because I couldn't let it

spill

unless I was alone and then

I could sing

and sing and sing

and grin

at the windows

and the cutlery

and laugh at the shape

of the front door

all angular and rigid

and trapped by lines

not like me

I was bright that day

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-Would you feel better

          if you had a label?

I probe the air with my left eye, spy

socratic poker face with my right -

she can't see me, just case notes;

I, unidentified, somewhere between

the sighing beige of the walls

and the dirty carpet, stained

with confessions, some sharp enough

to draw blood, others hollow and

unyielding. She te...

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