After 90—a little bird-like cocking of her head to gather what she could from the periphery.   Her eager pupilage, dulled.   Retinas—their rites by rote, their prayers for…

  Madame Maman at the kitchen table, in turban and curlers,   reading the cards. Clucks and sighs suggest my stint on earth gets grim.   She won’t say how…

  Fear yields the perfect ping of a wine glass in a war zone, magnifies anemones into fields of enemies. In case of emergency it breaks your skin.   Shrapnel…