She had not aged well

She had not aged well

flora and fauna

grew within the rift valleys 

below her eyes 

and a legion of tiny ailerons  

dragged the corners of her mouth

into a dystopian grimace 

 

This was the conspiracy of time

it's heft and yaw 

smuggled into the cavities 

deep within her skull

and the dreams 

the constant fucking dreams 

of hands and mouths 

which belonged to those she had lost 

but never met

 

Every morning 

whilst brushing her teeth

she bleated a guttural mantra

to placate the universe.

It lacked the tonality of a prayer

and discomforted her husband 

Larry

who had recently secured a job 

composing the messages 

for fortune cookies 

 

On Wednesdays 

she would leave her home 

and make her way 

to her local community college 

never certain 

whether the rustling 

in the bushes was the wind 

or the amorphous fingertips of death

 

She painted tiny intricate portraits 

on the shells

of duck eggs

each one so beautiful 

it froze the breath 

of her teacher 

in his throat 

and every week

she wrapped a freshly painted egg

in a peppermint green and gold silk scarf 

and crushed it to dust under the heel of her shoe 

 

Larry would have loved 

those eggs

he would have cradled them 

in his palm

like a first kiss

and made a special place 

on the mantle piece 

for each one 

beside the only photograph 

they had

of their son

 

But these were the verses

of the song of her loss

and the pain 

was too exquisite 

to share