Whister's Symphony in White

Behind the lace curtains, voices whisper
falling leaves. Light drips from bare

canvasses hung with thread, needles sewn
into walls. She stands, holding thirsty

chalk palms. She is soft. Nails
turned to pale flesh, dripping fresh

blood and flower buds. The sting of open
wounds and nectar streams through

her periwinkle veins. Her lips draped
like silk, like oil paint. Neck melts

into dress, a candle dripping warmed wax,
cooling into a tightly-tied bow. She has scattered

petals across the velvet rug so she can pick them
up one by one, arrange them according to which weighs

heaviest. If her eyes were closed, she would be
a phantom, a woman. She is a girl,

a glass vase coated with the ashes of one
dried white rose, a gloved hand holding still

and still shaking. The only member of a symphony
made of the air particles between two breaths.

Listen, the voices murmur, listen.

The conductor waves his thin baton,
violins warp to the shape of her stare.