A tumor sings in her skull, a chitter of calcium, chirp of pituitary sabotage. She towels her hair, rubs fingers, puffy as damp marshmallows against the nub of her bathrobe. Toes, rounds of unleavened dough, punch through the tops of her slippers. I enter from the back door, arms tumbled with oranges. Pulcinella, the German Shepherd, greets me, snouts for bones in a paper bag.
Water weeps through a pinhole in the kitchen ceiling.
A flowerpot is broken in the sink. Dirt and threads of carrots clog the drain. The table slumps. Dust thickened candles list on tarnished sticks, spill wax on oak and stacks of books. French doors open and a goose waddles in to shit on the floor.