The Former Occupant
She died on a three-legged stool
in her kitchen,
her heart burst, and out flew
all the skills of her nimble hands.
Now she cooks the twilight
mixing the dried fruits of yester-years.
I feel her thoughts taking shape,
see her sway to the music of Glen Miller,
another memory she gave this space to.
These words are partly hers,
the flavors are mixed, the twilight
shapes her tireless hands.
I pay her rent as her interlocutor.
I water the old ferns as if I were
the curator of her life.
We never did meet, but at night
before I fall asleep
she spits on a yellow duster and gently
polishes my drowsy eyes
until something shines in me, and I know her
and she knows me.
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