You, good ocean, will stay

The woman who is dying does not reach for the organic yogurt. She is dying. The trace blood in Yoplaits keylime wont hurt much. The woman who is dying who reaches for the bread, on the shelf, isnt in a store hurry. She is dying. She loses time reaching for the seven grain slowly.

The woman who is dying is tying up ends—a multitasker! Some days she is ready already, her prize in the sky—or some place that smells sky. The woman who is dying —who is she, when alone in a night room, does she really exist? Who, never you does she long for?

The woman who is dying youll wonder you dreamed— the leaves turned up where she passed. Was that her shadow that snagged the old stone?

She who is dying sprouts wing buds. She leans in. You are always the other side of the world.

The woman who is dying will tear out your throat when she goes: you know she will. You will throw a patch over, so the air won’t go, suck leaf to blowhole. You practice now with paper.

The woman who is dying is beyond carnivals. She says someday and really means it. The woman who is dying is the queen of hearts that will break. The cardhouse will fall when she becomes wind. She will become wind. You, good ocean, will stay.

The woman who is dying has that shine you long for. Shes not dying to know. Her eye falls far over your shoulder; shes good at lying, smiling she never says it though.