I
used to be growing up. Now I'm dying she said
Just
as if her round basin hat wasn't lavender.
I
used to be growing up she said though
She has yet to raise orchids
or learn the tango
Though there is Paris and
comparative literature
I'm
dying she said
As if we'd never yelled at each other
And made peace over lasagna.
As if the mirror could refuse or thwart her.
As if she was not water and death
Was not the breast stroke.
I
used to be growing up she said as if
Letting go each day did not
Stitch us to the wind mote by mote.
As
if it might not be nice to go
Shuck this flesh suit and
Slide oily past the boiling stars
Becoming at last one necessary spark.
I'm
dying she said
Though death is a convection and
We unformed are waiting to rise.
Magdalena
Alagna's work has appeared in Long Shot, The Paterson Literary
Review, The Ever-Dancing Muse, The Bitter Oleander, Medicinal
Purposes, Bouillabaisse, and will be included in a forthcoming
anthology of Generation X writing.
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