It's the glottal stop makes all the difference. But don't tell her that. She dreams marigold dreams of sunlight—all pollen and bees' bodies and honey. In the morning, her religion's the smear of egg yolk on a plate; in the afternoon, the puddle games of children in slickers and galoshes under a warm fall rain. It all started with her bones growing softer, malleable, heavy. Then it was the new gilding of their wedding picture on the piano, seconded by scrapbook clippings. Next, the thinning of her skin, her flesh a sponge for the light seeping, an inch faster each day, its honeyed way across the living room. Her spit's champagne, her teeth nuggets, butter is her tongue. She wonders what they'll do with her when she's finished. Melt her down and mold her, divide her up and stack her deep within a mountain. That's what they do with precious things. At night, she parts her curtains for the wheat shine, suspends in her mind a shucked ear of her father's corn, her wedding ring, and the Palouse sky a minute after sunset. For now this is as close as she can get, napping on her living room floor, each pine board nudged against its neighbor in sisterly peace, becoming gold.

More Poetry