Today I saw a woman who looked
like I imagine Joan would have looked
if she hadn’t taken her life
twenty years ago
with three bottles of Mountain Chablis,
a vial of pills, and a yearning for chocolate.

When they opened her apartment,
the smell of cigarettes and stale wine
mingled with the scent of a dozen Mr Goodbars,
still in wrappers,
strewn across the soiled carpet.
The heat of a September week in Los Angeles
had melted the bars

into a sweetness
that floated over Joan’s curled body,
her eyes open to the light, barely visible
through drawn curtains on the French doors
leading to the patio
where an umbrella unfurled
over a metal table, four chairs,
yellow candle unlit.