My body’s been everywhere I have—
when I ate worms when I was 8
My body witnessed it, shouted NO DON’T DO IT!
Last summer brother John and I cleared the yard of its dead weeds
My spine bent over the dirt and shovel.
We radiated heat and red—
we were dry sponges.
These cracked lips need water.
The shriveling process has started
inside I’ve become an old woman
as my skin tries to catch up with its
aging organs
lungs and liver blackening
skin shrinking to surround my heart and eye sockets.
They are most tender.
But I am not old yet.
When we are golden old
I will make us scrambled eggs
and thick black coffee
that makes our chest hair grow.
I will listen to public radio
Dancing in the fresh cut grass
catching fireflies
till my skin falls from my frame.
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