Pouring milk teeth onto a tea cup silence,
rasping over ceramic furroughs -
a harvest of unborn cries -
she shudders into the hollow of a throat
she can’t escape.
She’s already shrouded,
tapestries and bed-sheets and fences and
liquid walls, all white.
Bridal white, white as snow, cold to the touch.
She dreams softly, unassuming,
folded into her wrinkle of universe,
and dabs her weeping wrists with every
perfume she owns, hoping to reclaim her mind
with the memory-laden scents of what was.
But it all smells the same to her now,
like steel corridors and hospital-stillness,
and she can’t hide the decay even
though every mirror in the house is turned
inside out and left alone to reflect the wall.
She’s nothing now: a final breath
a kiss no one remembers,
a candle with a millimeter wick and no matches.
She’s imprisoned in one strand of mercury hair, torn and
bleeding around her finger,
and set free in that instant where vanilla tears swell
with his image on her face.
She held him for so long, but she’s on her knees
begging for more.
Inspiration: Pearl Jam's Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town
"Lucid, Nostalgic Perfumes of a
Deceased Love Permeate his senses."