a room without light

as she lies
in a stranger's bed,
on one of
the lower levels
of dante's inferno,
in a room
without light,
writhing,
awash in muddled
memory,
staring into her hands
as if they
held stars,
back stage they
quibble over
dollars
and miles
and control
of who will decide
her final
days, the place
she will take
a last breath,
eat her last meal,
sigh her
last sigh,
and hold the sound
of your
own name in
her mouth.