The bed spring squeaks.
She hasn’t gotten up for three weeks.
House forgotten, her body rotten
Eighty-four years
Gush out of that carcass’
Mouth, eyes and ears.
***
Timid string of light
(In the shape of saxophone)
Plays its tune down
her darkened window
where
unborn black holes silently crawl
down the curtain
and up the wall
of a morning swallowed and gone
The morning saxophone
Plays its tune down
her wrinkled arm
Like self-assured goose-bump
That spills dancing rivers down
Down, down, down
to start the lifeline of her palm
and end the dawn
Timid string of light
Born out of Kali’s charm
in the womb of numbness-night
Creeps into her room
To spill softly on the ground
and scatter drops of doom
Of Dali paint in the silhouette
of a covered painting stand
Timid string of light
Leaves warm prints on the floor
And travels up and down
Her closed door
Playing out her acoustic quilt
(What is born is meant to wilt.)
Last night.
Last shore.
Last note in the score.
Timid string of light
Paints her this morning
Hades’ bride.
***
The bed spring squeaks.
She hasn’t gotten up for thirty weeks.
House rotten, her body forgotten
Eighty-four years
Shine bright
In timid string of light
In the shape of saxophone