Femina Pendula Rubrum

  It’s like she’s a horse tethered to a tree, asleep with eyes open in case she misses her own demise —meanwhile, her vacuum broke down How does she do it, inhale her own dust, skin cells shed at night when no one is looking? She can’t hear a thing on account of the noise —scritches of birdsong in the garden, spoon backs tapping at drawers Why must a woman who has outlasted Disney and aerobics serve her obituary on a mess-free non-stick surface; —she has trouble breathing, reaches an arm around her own back, plunges through ribs to prop up the aorta, deft as a gardener staking delphinium; yanks up heart straps for the last time —fluent in the language of foliage, arm red streaked, fingers composting Almost gets away with it.