Her walls stand, heavy with pictures. Costumes

all out of style—long out. But her young face

shines from each frame. Her gray head, full of tunes

she once owned, rests on her chest. She’s erased

the ancient videos of her shows. Few

are still known, even by her. Now she sleeps

to her own voice: arias. Duets, art songs—

she could cover them all. She feels each leap

up the scale. She was so pretty then. Lost—

her instrument. It never quite belonged

to her. She barely talks these days. She’ll boss

the help with hands. Demand her diva due

from those who don’t care, can’t know what it cost

her to sing, not to sing. Cost her. Not you.