Violin and piano. A trout-stream
braided brown over pebbles.
Whose is this room? she asks.
Henut in a muslin robe. Her thin
feet, her collarbones almost blue
under the skin. Whose is this room?

Two nuns in a roofless chantry:
one crossed the checkered floor
in loud sandals and—where once
there had been an altar—folded
her hands, while the other
took her photograph. The air
flickered with trout.

This room? The sweat of candle-wax,
the gray-green and rose
of tapestries. The vaults
and buttresses of Henut's body
reaching for the plaster-white
firmament. It is my room.

Slim sisters flute
through metal throats, and the moon
presses its haggard gaze
against the panes. At the final chime
of night, a grand piano
bursts into flames, all the trout
in the hills wither like leaves,
and Henut's hem
blazes around her waist.
This room was mine long before her time.