Inside they gather round the cakes,
fill their mouths to bursting with macadamia nuts
and Russell Stover chocolates.
Black strip of cloth,
neon sign attached to her bodice,
she whispers about the room
vodka, Xanax, and memories anesthetized.

The guests laugh and nod knowingly
staving off their own demise.
Her Bette Davis eyes follow their movements
until the last door slams shut
and they shuffle out into the rainy evening.

Waxen image of life remains behind.
Light resides instead in the cliff-hanging photos,
Her red hair, wind-blown above canyon rims,
Where darkness replaces the light
and sorrow stretches taut as a drum head over her reality.