Sometime past lunch
when the housework is done
a translucent lady
sheds her husk. In her mirror
the tricksy sun cajoles
grey to gold, teases
with wistful strokes.

Like a vodka-chased pill
she slides down a rabbit hole
until soft fingers feel
almost like strangers.
With a methodical parting
and functional probing,
she dies another small death.

Ryan Stone