The evening meal served, chair cranked to its highest setting,
until over her head a vestigial moon
appears in the window.
Her eyes are open, cadaverous
in a face I recognize as a sharper version of my own.
Her mind has emptied out its pockets.
This agitated stranger picking at the threads of her gown,
who strikes out at me without warning, leaving
a red tattoo on my bare arm.
My soothing attempts to calm her even though
there is no stopping the echolalia of m’s,
parade of fuck and cunt.
Shrieked obscenities. Toward me?Toward God?
How I hope He will forgive me
for wanting in the moment of a single heartbeat
this lost woman dead.