aphrodite watches me sleep

Aphrodite watches me from her hiding place in the corner, between the painted parrot and stack of firewood (it'll never be burned). She watches me sleep on the brown-and-yellow flowered couch, and her shy smile matches mine.
I remember when the scratches on the Bill Cosby albums would lull me and my cousins to sleep; now it's the sound of Grandma's television and machines (she's still breathing).
The clock is stopped just before 12, this room is always on the brink of midnight. There's forgotten literature on the shelves and Grandma's articles are crawling out of the dust (I'll be a writer like her maybe someday.)
She calls for him, glasses of wine and seltzer, she's always calling for him. He's wearing the "Beth Ann shirt", the one he wore the first time he held me (it's mine, but I let him wear it). Tell me stories, I'll listen, tell me more.
There's a potpie tin on the side of the bathtub with ashes and crumpled cigarettes in it. (This is where I come from, did you know?)

Aphrodite smiles at me with white marble lips and steps into the cloth she's been holding for so long. I'm content; I am sleeping.