she could, and did
fall from the attic to the cellar
with not a tread touched,
nor a hand placed on a balustrade.
switches transfused energies
with perplexing rapidity,
with the sun spreading golden rays,
or falling through the grid
to the dungeon floor,
in a heartbeat.
then, five sets of stairs
transcended in metaphoric flights,
over black boots and raincoats
with exhausted tissues;
waving flags of surrender
from bathroom windows.
her words rang cold as December,
on spurious petals of lilies
tinkling in crystal condensation
between eiderdowns of night and day,
and nightshirts of mid-July.
slashes from the talons of owls
soothed by an unlit oven
that embraced, and interred her soul
in the eternity of a bell jar.