Body Squatters Caught Dancing


The knot homed in my lungs will scamper and fly,

depart through orchards of bone,

brushing whatever loneliness feeds my skin. It’ll dance

to the popping beats of my vessels

without even thinking of staying. My grandma said that’s how you get old,

things come to stay.

She had a tumour squatting in her throat no one found,

said something doesn’t have to be real to be killing you.

Months later she was breathing laser light and coughing up herself.

Decay was her wilderness, body her spring.

I sensed she was putting off telling me something which might have been important,

like how the vastness which would come between us will shrink to the size of a bee

and spread its hive through my lungs.

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