Sonia

Mar 10, 2008 - 19:28 PM PST

Sonia squats in impossible corners,
an orb of opaque nightgown-white.
Her thin, chipped nails chisel
off wall plaster –
the Bleached Slate White creates
a cracked and crumbling outline
around the gorged plaster.
Her blue eyes gape in permanent shock,
but nobody can see her desperately tasting,
licking the powder from under her nail.
Sonia shakes her head – this is not it –
moves on and glides toward the table.
Her tongue escapes from between her lips,
arches, collects the moth powder
between the pleats of the paper shade.
She tastes the powder,
swallows,
consumes the white,
hopes she has found it –
the taste:
the bone,
the life,
the skeleton.
She shakes her head, floats to the end
of the carpet, lays on her stomach and sucks
on the rug tassels –
this gold thread, gold like Daxter’s eyes,
this must be it, this must be it.