The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton
Her decline into obsolescence is near-perfect.
Her stiff upper lip curves into a ghastly smile
she never once assembled in life.
Her illusions are mythic in proportion,
as indecipherable as Sanskrit.
Her florid feet have stopped dancing,
grown weary of rhythm.
Her folded hands, emptied of promises
and flowers she can no longer deliver,
The cereus is now deep with silence.
The pale moon flutters weakly, quiet
in a sky suddenly bereft of song.
She will become accustomed to this different fable,
this new and ancient shroud,