Little pieces of me are crumbling,
They lump up over my spine
they materialize over my rib cage as
soft tissue balled up
and I have begun to mediate
“ it is my nature to be ill and to die”

I wait weeks, days, to know before I frighten my friends, but it’s too late for my mind it is scared–and it prepares for the possibility of death.

In my mother’s culture they embrace death. They paint their faces as calaveras and line the path with flores naranjas between what they believe links
the living to the dead

So you would think
I would be ready

                               ...
My dad is old and has seen death many times before...
This quarantine has walked him deeper into a pool of sadness; he’s been in doors for  a month , but it wasn’t until the ball over my rib began to grow that he finally submerged his head underwater.
                               ...
I mustered the courage to tell my childhood friend; it made her sad– I don’t want to be a burden

My pals speak of post quarantine fun, of trips and of gatherings. I don’t tell any of them why I have begun adding “if I have enough life”

A little piece of me, who would of thought a little piece of me could potentially **** me.