Inheritance

If you don’t mind a touch of hell--
could we imagine a return to our prayers?
In their fragile heels and long black skirts,
I’m speaking with my selves by the window.
I folded my sorrows in with summer linens and
my blood of oldest strain leaked through, curling
red on the floor. Wipe/tear up the floorboards,
let the doctors pile up from below to let me know
my body is not obeying demands given and must be
returned. But my body is not mine but mother death’s
steel bone corset. My body is not mine, but it’s the outward
facing bay window looking inward. If I break out a stick of battered
lungs, would you comfort me as I’m led below the floorboards?