Each morning is a rusted keyhole.
The air parts resentfully,
cold crawling to the dustless corners.
On the pale wallpaper
hyacinths bloom ceaselessly;
furl from crystal bowls.
Life is bottled here,
its frantic static
stilled to silence.
For years it has been the same.
She walks the white carpet,
erasing her own footprints.
She fears that she is followed.
Even in this stale garden,
a dark breath
stirs the paper petals.
she pulls wide the door
and daylight crashes like a wave,
Pandora’s horrors filtering in
upon the too-bold sun.
For years it has been the same—
always a death about to turn up
like a white root on a spade.
“Life through a Black Net Veil” was previously published in The Pedestal Magazine, Issue 29 (August-October 2005).