I am tired of my own long story,
my blouse stained with vignettes.
The gold ring I lost can not be found,
my china teapot stays broken.
Familiar faces are stacked,
piled high in snapshots.

In this half-light of my life
I will cook a soup of claws and spine.
When my eyes fail I will eat more parsnips.
My skin will become bleached wood,
preserved by salt.
I want no candy hearts or sticky adjectives,
no flower bouquets
or fortune cookie futures.

Give me a love song of nouns and verbs,
of hard surprises.
I will be an old woman with good bones.
Stars will face down and die,
the night will wear itself out,
and I will not let go of anything.