The bag of skin she wore was cadaverous silk
Like my mother’s linen table cloth,
Or the pallid, pearly white
Of a fox’s tail.
Tonight the rain came down in long knitting needles and
Her disheveled hair absorbed in some holy war
To steal some attention from her smiling collarbones
That were too alluring to possibly be ignored.
My heart rises like the price of cigarettes
When i remember her as just a little girl
Because it only took some aging and vanity
To obstruct her view of the world.