The Party on the Stairs

We had a party on the stairs,
the ghostly belles and I,
and in that space between the dawn
and when the cockerel cries
we talked of many things,
including how I’d one day wear
a death mask just like theirs,
of powder and patch
and one beauty mark
to anchor the face to the room.

How in this world a woman is a ghost
before even her limbs have stilled,
her heart stopped beating in its cage,
her corset loosed at last.