She isn’t here, she’s Stuck and stuck and stuck On the other side, In that other time somewhere. Her hip bones, like Wings in jeans with tears, Are buried in boxes, In photographs Lithographs Telegraphs In my attic room You left the same Upstairs. I see you sometimes, Standing up there, In the pink, church bells Chiming, and my empty chair. Come here, you say to the air. My ghosts touch your hands, Your hair. The phonograph plays epitaphs Beneath the stairs.
Maud, 1926 In the asylum, a cinnamon kiss. You, sir, are an attorney. Your wife, then-- she wears Chanel shoes and gardenias at her wrist and a linen gown with a number (pig off to slaughter). This is your own Holocaust apocalypse, women sucking laudanum popsicles, whore mouths in your whore-house. Now, 89