It’s almost as easy to bite through fingers
as through carrots   pressure and the crunch
but we get that little voice
in the back of our heads   screaming

Five hundred and twenty pounds
to break a skull   bare hands won’t
do the trick but love   you only need to lose
seven to fit in that mourning dress
the same weight as the human heart
but no matter when three hundred
million cells wither in a minute
some of us always feel that acute
sense of loss

Dear   did you know you can die
from dropping something on your leg
and the clot formed breaks away to travel
to your lungs or brain
until lack of air tips you to the ground
Best worry about your neck
you can snap the little bones and still
walk   breath   speak   eat
until you see a chiropractor about
the lingering pain

Some people have that gene
where coriander tastes like soap
others   milk like blood
and the rest of sustenance like ash
no matter how many chilies you add

Darling   it takes twenty five years to start dying
as cell generation slows
apoptosis continues its slow   steady culling
and with all the family standing
around your hospital bed
your last act on Earth
is to shit yourself


Image Credit:Mary Bailey Thomas
Sioned Curoe is a queer poet and artist living in Iowa. Their previous publications include works in Coe Review, Colere, The Pearl, and Dubuque Area Writers Guild Gallery 2016: Shapes.


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