Her teeth
are clawing their way out from her gums
and her skin
is rotting like the apples in her fruit bowl.

Decay dusts the drapes,
lives in her broken clocks,
crawls down through the floorboards,
like the blood dragging itself through her veins.

Her calla lillies
are hanging their heads in defeat,
petal carcasses littering
her Persian rug graveyard.

She says she prefers her piano out of tune,
says it makes her feel better about
the way her bones clank together
in their own cacophony.

She keeps radios in every room
turns them up loud
hoping the Morning Edition
will drown out the sound
of the shovels
digging this grave.