Knowing

She sits in a chair, wires welded to bone.

Does she know?

Sirens ring in her ears.

Do they know?

Movies shout from the living room.

Why do they care?

What do they know

of her metal limbs, warning sounds outside the door?

What do they know beyond a mirror?

The chair is cold, like mountain air.

Does she know mountain air?

Sirens blare, and no one comes.

Do they know she is there?

A handsome actor shakes his head and smirks.

He knows, doesn’t he?

He knows they can’t find her.

He knows she belongs in a frigid chair.

The chair is a cage that chains her veins.

Does blood still flow?

The red sirens beat circles in her muscles.

How can sirens be strong?

A screen maiden cries that love is to the end,

but how does she know?

How does she know if it goes that far,

or if it is a car short on gas

rolling down a sailing barge?

For a girl in a chair, with steel encased toes,

does strength mean standing alone?

The alarm of death, like the banshee’s wailing call.

Can she hear the spirit once more?

Glass moves on, retelling history,

but never summarizes it all.

Can it summarize her all?

Encase or capture a desperate artery,

then keep it for later falls.

Does she know that iced chair or the last breath of mountain air?

Does anyone mourn, or walk away?

Does the chair sit empty, or gone?