A FRAIL hand reaches for the glass, a COUPE filled to the brim with expensive bubbles. The ceiling is SOOTY from ancient fires. The air in the room is musty, not helped by the BOGGY humid feeling, creeping in the French doors. The darkness hangs as heavy as the tattered velvet curtains, dusty ropes with long tassels holding them aside. The only sound is a whisper of a sip, as the glass reaches its destination, old lips daintily part, delicate in every move. Her cheeks are powdered and rouged, her gray curls piled on her head. Every bit of her proclaims her wealth and her age. It is with awkward steps and feeling very out of place that I step into this strange room. I feel gauche, overly modern, WONKY and off-kilter. I am not silent as I approach her; I have no wish to startle. She turns at the sound of my steps. I stifle a gasp as her cloudy eyes turn towards me. Before I can say a word, she speaks, a voice as clear as the champagne glass beside her. “MOMMY, is that you?”

Georg’ann

I CRAVE nubby oatmeal cookies.
They won’t SPOIL my dinner
because they might be my dinner.
Ah, pleasures of being an adult,
BOUND by no foolish rules
about what I choose to eat.
Sink my TOOTH into anything
the tongue desires.
No MOMMY to tell me otherwise.

Heather