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WHAT SHE LOOKED OUT UPON
What she looked out upon through the small grille of the kitchen window was the exhausted clothesline strung across the yard, its soft and sagging middle a hammocked emptiness that crossed her eyes' rest as a thin shadow of the depression she looked in upon, thinking of what was to come: the winding down, the thinning - of bone, of hair, of skin, of patience even. Hoping enough would be left to finish with some grace what had begun without thinking. Thinking how the days rolled out in laundry and bad news. How the pole that held the clothesline held the wires that pulled the clanging world in. Most of the time not listening unless something caught her attention the way the moth between the window and the screen now did, wings flailing against the vague web. She could see the spider too, shroud maker, paying out thread; little god, moving gingerly along the avenues of its invention.