The ladies of Haus Knoll
The daughter is etiolated
as a crocus stalk, something grown
too long in darkness. She lives
close to the ground, sends us
floors above, to where a frayed light enters.
She is so absent, the place so hushed
that for days we assume she’s alone, believe
our own stories,
that her mother has died and left her
to let the house sink gradually to its knees
in a powder of balconies and plaster.
So when the old woman appears
one morning at breakfast, it is like someone
rising from the grave – and she moves
like a ghost, without questions
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