Two gnarled nostrils—disrupting
the swollen arc of her face,
from brow to the bunched
up rungs of skin
that dampen down her chin,
completed by a knot of ash,
slouching at the end of her Virginia Slim—
push dusts finer than Martian dirt
in loose ringlets around the kitchen.

The stove burner clicks
its black teeth
and puffs up tendrils
to warm dinner from the freezer.

A screen door falls back,
kicks its heels again
against the front sill,
and whistles—
feigning surprise visits
and grandchildren
to her sympathetic ears—
more from disuse than
experience.

In spite of the dining room,
the television harps
self-absorbed redundancies
and colors the floor at her feet.
Her hands curl inward
and feed her now-gaped arc.
The house is empty,
save one pink oval
resisting surrender.