It was the thoughtless grey mass on the screen
that sent me spinning without feet or brain
whilst she clicked and saved and captured it
loving its shadowy asymmetry

Waiting
Waiting
Weeks slouch

I remember that I haven't had sex for a long time
how the summer sun leaks pink into blue at Cooden
how my baby's umbilical cord squeezed him purple
'til we saved him

Life. I want it so bad
I will be one of those hairy-chinned ladies that refuse to die
choking nutriment through a straw into my bony esophagus
and laughing at nothing on the wall -
laughing

It was not a tumor, but a longer, safer word
The doctor shrugged as I wept
You do not know me doctor
You do not know what fears tumesce in me
as I approach my mother's age,
hoping to creep past unnoticed

Now flowers twist in my gutter and dust clouds the stair
I'm out moshing to Arctic Monkeys
crowd surfing the teens and
waving my age like an indecent trophy in their
smooth faces

I will be ungraceful, ungrateful, unpensionable, unmentionable

But when age alone finally metastasizes
and explodes my bones
read my headstone's eternal lips:
'She wasn't ready'

And flowers will twist in my gut and dust cloud my stare

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