Last night I read about a woman who purged herself to death.
We shared the same birthday,
the same habits.
Sometimes I wake up in disgust with these bones.
Other times, in narcissistic bliss with these bones.
Then there are those perpetual evenings,
when I whisper threats disguised as mantras to these bones
I want my obituary to say
that I loved this delicate framework of calcium & collagen.
When I'm 91 and the only thing I've expulsed myself of
is the need to perfect these bones.

Late August,
the 6 o’clock sun rests itself on my skin.
Myself, I rest in the grass.
I don’t mind if the bugs make themselves at home in my hair,
that the cicadas are singing,
or that the bright, setting light could disintegrate the emerald from my eyes.
This hour, and breathing, I am content.