She wasn’t sure how she had become days of mourning.
It began with a pall, a thick viscous scrim
that changed what she saw, sawed herself into
halves and quarters and post-dissection she noticed
days had turned into weeks into months into years
into moths (what was this closet? where had she gone?)
and altogether a knotted bundle
that could not be spent, or misspent,
there was no economy to the quivering mass
of darkening days past, days she had become.
Knowing that escape was both impossible and inevitable,
she returned to the staggered fiction
of nights with no memory,
nights in which days of mourning
factored in little to none