a lover of this precious, crumbling world,
my own fleshly world crumbling,
An infant born to a mother who adored infants,
who needed an infant
a too-soon awkward child;
an adolescent struggling toward the salvation of competence;
a wife, certain she knew how she should be,
how he should be,
how everyone should be;
a mother, a perfect mother, a failed mother;
a lesbian starving for food she had never tasted;
All tucked neatly, like nesting dolls,
inside an old woman.
An old woman standing close by the end of her eighth decade.
Who am I?
A lone woman,
a fleck of dust in an expanding universe,
a fleck of consciousness
A gatherer of words.
Words laid out, one by one by one,
seeking . . .
not the eternity of the page.
Paper crumbles, too,
Like my fleshly crumbling world.
I gather a bouquet words,
my past into words,
hold it in this moment,
only this moment
I gather words to say
I am here.
[A piece from my memoir in progress, currently titled All the Love in this Trembling World: A Memoir in Verse]