A sip of iced garden
mint chamomile tea
and she wants

to believe in more
than the dead
kit below her building

stoop, the fluid
filling her father’s lungs,
the beautiful five

o’clock shadow
framing your face. Mid-syllable,

she comes to. A trance-induced
dialogue snaps
shut. She blinks. Assesses

her surroundings
with fingertips cooled
by glass perspiration. Who

have I been talking to? She asks.
Who will answer? A murmur
behind a smile and she disappears

through the wall
becomes a door.