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I was old at my
birth, teeth fallen out,
fetid breath sucking at slack corners.
Pushed a walker as a toddler does that
toy
shopping cart, putting in all the colored
pains.
My veins were black and bulging at five,
knots and ropes writhed beneath thin skin.
I could bruise by breath alone:
barometric
in relief, like friezes on the inside.
The middle age occurred at 4:01 AM
last Saturday, just as I turned twelve.
My eyes no longer tear, my tongue is
sere,
as youthful flush eviscerates all
moisture.
Menopause marked my adolescence
with congealed blood and petrified egg.
I wait for the viper to worm from my
navel;
for morning to
break, and remake my bones.
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