You ginger step
like an old woman.
begs for stillness.
drags and scrapes
like a gravedigger's shovel.
The acorn long buried in the bronchi
is blooming its breathless death,
and every cough and wheeze brings the crops closer to harvest.
I've watched you string along your mortality
like a child's pull-toy since I was a girl of eight.
I've greeted the hooded stranger at the door and
felt the tingle of his till-we-meet-again kiss on my cheek.
I've felt his dry touch against my pig-tailed hair.
After so many floods of grief and terror,
I've gotten pretty good at treading water.
that I almost forget
I'm still drowning.
Shawna's Monday Melting Pot words
for Open Link Night at dVerse