Lorelie

The couch is crowded
with clothes and golden gift boxes,
the kind used to hide sweaters
from thieving eyes on holidays.
Wedged between them,
my once again attired form
has taken residence
while she sits

Indian-style, unadorned,
unencumbered by any covering, comfortable
in her paper bag carapace of skin.
On a single Easter egg pastel blue sheet,

which drapes over her divan
like a dust cover over a car,
like a slip over a stiff in a morgue,
we talk the talk of old friends
and not strangers.