Plague-House

The cross on the door says it all.

Quarantined within her quarters,
A lady-in-waiting to Judge Death.
These are the dying rooms, no doctor comes
To treat the dark rings of roses.

She waits wanly by the window,
Expecting a lover who will never come,
Already buried in the village green.
Too late to give her pocketfuls of posies.

Dreaming of the life they could have had,
Of housework, children, the sweat on his brow
Coming home, a short intimacy together.
Reality bites as she sneezes, “Atishoo, atishoo!”

She wraps herself up, the last one alive,
Ignoring the squeaking rats in the corner
In this Year of Our Lord 1666,
When we all fell down.