Long after a woman
accepts the rack of age—
intolerant overseer
with his bloodied instruments—
a vestige of passion clings.
Like the appetite of boiled milk
for its skin, or a winter day
for the sun. Like the single
marigold blooming
on a veranda—
that stubborn, red-headed child.
Long into the lateness of life,
after the shadow puppets
of parents have been pulled
from the theatre,
their heads twisted off—
deep inside the body
an extravagant wish surfaces,
requests to play the part
of descant.
