The doors shake in their frames
as if a storm passed through.
In her room or the dark
by the cellar stairs,
she begins again
spitting out syllables like phlegm,
choking on words
she won't understand.
It started yesterday.
I lifted her as if she'd gone black
with her first blood;
left her with only the words
for dinner;
knew that would be enough.
This morning
her eyes were dumb as an angel's.
Only her lips formed words
as the flesh crusts from the body
after an old contagion,
new words coming,
breaking her
to the new language.