She spreads herself thinly, pat of butter
bony on the couch
her favorite afghan coming unspooled.
There is space she will never take up again.
Her ankles are so small,
sharp edges in calf-length hose
she barely sees them anymore.
She sleeps on the couch after
lunch. Cup of tea, tomato
soup, this is it. She is
older than her teeth.
Candles in the dark
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