Not dying-instead I
returned to the clay-
stained world, the sewage
drying my skin.
But the new balm
smells so good. I pay
with cash at the fancy
store for this new jar
of Poison and spread it
over my body to be
more supple. In
my love’s used
bed I’ll bake
under his sun-god face-
blind to his flaws, the labels
on the vials-pills
for depression, agitation,
sleep. It is so late
in the season-August’s
too perfumed air wilts
my hair. Soon his desire
will wander to his young neighbor’s
bulb garden-baby’s-breath,
bergenia, anemone-
how the fall ground waits,
cries to be filled,
not just left
an empty patch. Death
keeps finding me
or I go out and buy it.
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