She reads almost exclusively women
with the occasional exception
of those aged well beyond their ripeness (dead)
with the fervent hope of improving the poetry
of her body. Bodies, she says, are
“no more, no less than the words we take into ourselves.”
Seated back straight, knees trapped between chest and desk
(she does love her partial rhymes)
she pulls sustenance from all corners of the virtual globe.
Her dream of dreams is to live to an unforgivable age
to shake hands with Andromeda and spin,
spin until all her blinking worlds have been flung from the house into the chaos
of an empty street.
She wonders what the hell is taking that girl so long. (Time is always sometimes slow)
Half-remembered upon waking, the sunlight of memory warms her arms;
she was Methuselah in a previous life.
His beard perhaps, or the wafty hairs surrounding a bald cap
(there’s no way he wasn’t at least partially bald)
The point is, she was a follicle
thousand of follicles,
itched and scratched by the man himself and God knows who else.
She rises from the sheets confused, stumbling
to the fridge for hot chocolate and cold pizza
feeling thin as a plastic bag and older than the moon.