you're on your deathbed
alone as you've always feared
the walls are red
and flickering with silhouettes
the ceiling is alive
with insects, humming
your funeral dirge
a breath falls
on your face
smelling like Mother
like her orange peels
she kept in a vase
with clumps of her hair.
a warm, cloying breath
that leaves quickly
like a shadow down the stairs.
