they are performing this in an unprivate place;
wrapped in pink satin, the clammy, red-eyed daughter
with her
mouth full of ghosts and mint juleps and
at high noon,
porcelain.
her forehead on the marbled parlor floor
the hangedmen chanting in persimmontongue
her little sister is growling
behind the ottoman in the foyer still
even after being told not to
watch.