Z: Epilogue

There are times when she is silent
and all the world seems to shrink
underneath her bed,
leaving only a purple pillow
to rest her tears upon.
She wonders how,
if in any way,
she can be alone so well
after there is screaming
inside her cupped hands.

The dance goes on:
for days she sits as motionless
as a camouflaged moth.
Neither wings nor brown moss grow
upon her,
yet she feels the webs
of silky spiders
begin to wrap like water around her limbs.
Hoping the sunrise will find her hair
and catch with red glints, on fire.
There is steam radiating
from each eyelash,
kohl smudges
as if she is trapped
underground.

Sometimes she sighs,
and when she does
condensation, like dew, appears on the high window.
From within her, weeping radiates.
She dares not open the door,
but sits, weaving her hair
into the cracks in the wall.
Her heart is a hidden rainbow;
words are on her lips, as if the gold,
but she does not speak

because there is no one there to listen.