The Moya View

She Is the Way They Left Her


She is the way they left her:

silent, shuttered, composed

amidst disarray,

the waiting chair unmoved,

her body draped in final coverings,

spider rays webbing the room,

the overhead light unused,

the bed sagging forever

in the center after this,

the sun fighting

with the weight of shadows

on her bedspread.

The corners of her room are dusty

crying from the lack of human nicety.

A tattered pain lives in the motes

that float to the floor,


of the past

that cannot heal in the present.

My hands are cut by the sharp edges

of a future I’m blind and deaf too.

I can only grasp futilely as the sun floats

away in the shadow play.

A faint trace of her voice

saying Jon, Jon, Jon

follows me out as I

struggle to lock the door.





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