It is more than a shadow over my face.
It is my own skull rising out of my skin
in slow motion;
the years piled up in the yard like slaughtered wolves.
Sometimes I catch my death
in the corner of my left eye
and trap it behind a contact lens.
Other times it will not be contained.
Some days it insists on itself
to anyone who will pay attention.
In the last room, I want it to be you.
Bring me a sprig of pussywillow
and all you ever were, in manuscript form.
I will be the old woman
clasping the limp word-corpse of some dead poet
tight to my chest, the smoke of my last burnt offering
rising from my mouth.
*This piece was originally published by 24Mag