Neighbors passing through the courtyard
greet la vieille, the clavierist, the former
prodigy, Mozart's sister, a shell washed up
on the shore, no, a snail advancing under
the arch of the last century toward a bench
at the stucco wall. Her place to sit and sun.
Die Freiherrin von Berchtold zu Sonnenburg.
The blind one, the widow, the aunt, the dark
sack of silk and wool and hair, the distant
mother and teacher, the moon with wig
threadbare in May sunlight. La Madame
de Sonnenbourg. Nannerl. In her lap
her hands can't lie still, an old habit, to
play, or pluck at a thread, to marvel
at the continual length of an unraveling –
she woke again this morning – to wind
it around her finger and wait for the brief
show of resistance when snapped off.