Tuesday, April 2, 2013

A Meeting With Dementia

The floors dared not creak

when the crone was spinning her thread.

A basket of  silk and a basket of skulls occupied the hearth.

Her wheel stilled,  moonlight polishing its spindle

as  I entered in a pink  dress,  my mother’s  favorite shade,

to ask  if she would spare a parent’s mind.

The  woman  stared at my wrist, a tributary

of veins flowing with youth. She smiled.

Her shadow like dark  mold on the wall,  her voice  subtle

                                  and how much are you willing to give?


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