after Mira Dancy’s painting ‘Blue Exile’
Mid March I give up my lungs.
Here are the seedy airways that have shrunk
in my chest; here
is a bruised moon.
When they tell me to run I laugh.
I’d age on my terms, if I
had to; I’d do anything for the people I love. Lying on my back
at night, I scratch the grey parts of this skin
with ultraviolet teeth-
How many excuses does a body find
to stay alive? To keep its shell?
I never remembers whose face cries in my sleep. Veins turn
brick red and burst in water, the
shower curtain turns
scarlet, wet hair is wrapped in cellophane.
Sweaty ghosts have started to swell
in crowded rooms, talking to
themselves by bookshelves
or glaring at the floor.
I enjoy them.
In fact, I am leaving my body here,
talking to itself and glaring at the floor. The floor
was never a problem, always made me feel less dizzy,
The walls don’t worry me, either.
my neck and thighs so soft
that it almost feels like I’m