“Gorgeous, dying begonias.
So ripe and tragic.”She laments
And dies with them,
But recovers quickly and asks for a cigarette.
She trots no good filly’s gait,
Which disappointed her mother,
Who had hoped for a rind-bodied daughter, firm and fatty.
On the chaise-longue, up the curtains, skittering along the ceiling,
Cobweb- legged and packed with nothing in her stomach but an old star,
A very old star,
She’s primed and hot, and too young to know what it’s like to feel so much all at once,
And too old to endure much more of
Talcum powder wallpaper
Beech branches squeaking on the window pane.
She is too full of matter to exist now, in this time of order.