Death in Suburbia

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

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

Ryan Stone

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