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Poem	In another time, a linen winding sheet would already have been drawn about her, the funeral drums by now would have throbbed their dull tattoo into the shadows writhing behind the fire’s eye while a likeness of her narrow torso, carved and studded with obsidian might have been passed from hand to hand and rubbed against the bellies of women with child and a twist of her gray hair been dipped in oil and set alight, releasing the essence of her life’s elixir, pricking the nostrils of her children and her children’s children whose amber faces nod and shine like a ring of lanterns strung around her final flare-- but instead, she lives in this white room gnawing on a plastic bracelet as she is emptied, filled and emptied.
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