She sits on her bed all day every day,
wearing nothing but a stained smock
from yesterday’s closet. She holds a long
white candle under her chin but never
lights it. She is out of matches.
No evidence of nourishment, she’s sustained
by watching clouds hump like the oversized
white cushions plumped behind her motionless
body. A spider twirls its web at the base of the bed,
her tired feet caught in its silken embrace.
She listens to the crows graze their black
taffeta feathers against the dry faded rose’s
brittle petals, roses she can’t water, hose
she can’t lift, garden faucet she can’t turn on.
She will, however, brush her teeth twice
every day. Leaves her bed for the bath where
her toothbrush sits straight up in its elegant
highball glass. She does this because she was told
inertia can lead to bleeding gums,
the one thing she cannot abide.