Thursday, March 13, 2014

the last day of Mariposa

around her bed filling her room
her family and friends murmured
short phrases
abbreviated nouns
clipped adjectives
attempting to summarize her 90 years
like the photographs hanging on the wall
or the clippings in her scrapbook

her hands fussed
with the edges of her sheets
clenching
releasing
straightening—

she frowned
what can they possibly know
about the weight of beauty—

she asked
about the soup for the day—
if there would always be
wine
chocolate
coffee—

she wondered
where her shoes were—
which toilet she would use—
if she would have time
to unpack and iron her clothes—

weary and disheveled
she closed her eyes—
someone took another picture—
annoyed she sighed
I would love to fly again


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