Wax and Wane


She was sometimes more
like a glass teapot
than an old woman,
Heat steaming and building
more and whiter,
So brittle and trembling
beneath the fluorescence
With fingers dried and
cracking,
Her fungus nails like
diseased tree bark,
Dried blood crusting and
gathering tight like
water spots beneath
Those powdery roots,
Crumbling
like the mildew of
ancient herbs.

The age in her bones
Seeps into her ovaries and
Her only companions are
her fat cats,
Wax wheezing by her side
and Wane wailing
at the front door,
Splayed across the cool tiles with
cool eyes squinted and
Begging to be let out into
the dark.