UNDER black lace the bald skull shines and nods,
A melon seasoned in this winter sun,
Bare, yellowed, finial
Above the claw-and-ball-foot chair that mourns
North toward the frozen window and the bay. The gulls
Rise in a long line off the rocks, steer
For the lighthouse, shadowing the boats
That toss, abandoned, far beyond the point.
Heaped vestiges of fish consume the coast for miles.
Her life is sleep, and pain. With wakening
To this sequestered and snow-haunted world,
The black mantilla creaks with frost; red eyes
Break through the rinds of flesh, blur
Toward the dripping faucet and the last cans of
Spaghetti and baked beans, corroding on the shelves.
A bubble, then a sound that borders on a word
Breaks from her mouth. If she could think,
Her eighty years would bend toward Spain
Shadows of santos, crowds swarming in the heat,
Plumes, awnings, shields, the sun six hours high …
She believes this coast is Switzerland. A month ago,
Smoke from the village chimneys died. No lights burn
In windows of the cottages. Over the vacant docks
The birds are featureless, but her sight fails
Where these walls end.
Exile without remembrance,
Spawned in the heat to perish in this cold,
Ravaged by paresis, and her sight at last
A blackness in the blood, she moves her chair
Inch by excruciating inch, her face
Steered-raw, blank, aching—toward the beans:
The last survivor of the human race.
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