When she stopped sleeping her eyelids rasped
like a child clacking animal bones together.
Her teeth were tight and slick as seeds.
Her skin broke apart and a dog
ate the fingers of her left hand.
She didnít leave her house for six hundred days,
spoke to no one. The painter abandoned her; crossed
his wrists in some sort of sign, did not kiss her salad mouth
as he backed out the door, shouting in Italian.
She built herself an aeroplane, self-cleaning cupboards, a club foot.
She stared without medication into the green Mediterranean.
It was a miracle, of sorts, reported by a host of newspapers,
and the gift shop at the grotto carried tiny statues
of her likeness.