and so it is here i have come to be a squatter
this side of
death
shadowing door steps, taking residence in
the coffee pot
hissing at spilled drops
and early pours
and at night asleep in the dryer
arms and legs tumbled against hot sheets
baked alongside printed cottons- longevity measured in the shrink of denim
in a cycle's warm lull
and where ever i am , he waits
in the shower when i raise my arm
it is he who calculates and compares
who fingers breasts, eyes my uterus, scrapes my cervix
death who breaches life
a few cells at a time
it is here in this patter of space
that i am a squatter, in the slush of a wrung
washcloth, in the scent of spilled shampoo
in the eyes of a gray cat
sitting fat on a bath rug
m
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
i am so sorry.. it is real grief
