There are systems that don’t shut down in the absence of light

Smooth and shapely calves; lover of shiny
new shoes and stilettos—but now she can't 
walk unaided. 

Limbs like jelly until
the nurse hoists her into a chair. 

Then the arms take over, conducting 
an invisible choir. The voice,  
repeating pleas for food, for money.

A locked bedroom door ignites
a frenzy. The terror of going
without. 

Heartless: those 
who used to live with her.

The mind drifts in and out 
of all its rooms: a very old
mansion trying to preserve 
some of its beautiful façade.

She doesn't remember its architect—
only the man who swept her in
so long ago and across 
the threshold.

Even from the afterlife, 
he husbands her living 
appointments. She'll never 
stop singing his praises. 





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