Delirium in Brevity
Clara sleeps.
Her sweat seeps in
Egyptian cotton sheets
her toes, uncovered
the cold
slithers between them with
unclear intent.
Old sun paints prisms
on her grandmother's crystal
chimes, dangling above the
window; they ring.
The doorbell downstairs rings.
The hidden telephone rings.
Still asleep, she
sings an Italian love song:
Buona notte, principe
Buona notte, amore.
Her vibrato is the same
blown from brass trumpets
but she cannot speak
this language, only
sing it.
The sound breaks the mirror.
Her feet ache with frostbite.
Waking up, her
grandmother is sitting
grandmother, knitting
the burgundy scarf
she made for Clara's
ninth birthday; it
was
plush.
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