In-Patient

I have inherited another woman’s flowers.
She’s left no after-scent, fallen hairs,
no echoes of her voice,
no sign of who or how she was

or through which door she made her exit.
Only these bouquets - carnations,
tiger lilies, hothouse roses,
meretricious everlasting flowers.

By day, they form the set in which I play
the patient - one of a long line
of actresses who’ve played the part
on this small white stage.

It’s a script rich in alternatives.
Each reading reveals something new,
so I perform variously - not falsehoods,
just the interpretations I can manage.

At night, the flowers are oracles.
Sometimes they seem to promise a long run;
then frighten me with their bowing heads,
their hint of swan-songs.