Maria doesn’t live here anymore.

Each morning she rises, brews
the darkest roast coffee, drinks
it black, black as the lungs
in a chain-smoker’s chest,
but it has no flavor, no aroma,
it tastes like the void feels —
empty, and without form, because

Maria doesn’t live here anymore.

She moves through the rooms,
gathers the clothes and the dust
that accumulate in corners and
cupboards and covers and
everywhere, dust;
everything, unused, because

Maria doesn’t live here anymore.

She snacks on carrots and
water chestnuts and
the celery she burns more
calories consuming than the celery,
itself, provides to her barely breathing,
listless form, because

Maria doesn’t live here anymore.

She turns the faucet, the left one,
the red-ringed one, counter-clockwise
releasing the water that flows and fills
the tub as she sits, her skin scalding,
slowly, and she admires the steady
flow of the water, it has a purpose, and
that purpose is to fill, and it fills and it fills
and it overflows and her skin shrivels
and she remains empty, because

Maria doesn’t live here anymore.

It is afternoon and there is a knock,
just one, on the door, and the door
is opened by a man, and the woman
who knocked, asks if she can speak
to Maria, and the man says
no, no, this is not possible, because

Maria doesn’t live here anymore.

She pours a glass of white wine,
just one, and the sun will go down
when the glass is half-empty, and
she’ll stare at the pockmarks of the moon,
its light more gray than silver or white,
the only light she’s ever known, because

Maria doesn’t live here anymore.