marie B

she doesn't
remember
the last thing
she said
so she says
it again and
her questions
are soft
balls you
can swing at
with your eyes
closed. no
more probing
with a sharp
hot knife
about your
life and those
around you.
the game
is over.
she's slipping
into the ozone,
into orbit.
at eighty-three
she is a
mere shadow
of her dragon
self, coughing
up smoke,
dust, embers
cold, and ashes.
her finger is
still on speed
dial, but she
can't remember why.