Lineage Anagrams III
I try but cannot subtract my waist. How impossible to tell someone’s age
these days. To my objective ovaries, age is a mortal’s most mortal myth. No lie
to be found in follicles that cannot be found. Leg by leg
my empty hatches sounds for the wand’s cool blue gel.
I sleep with the same face on as waves bounce and eel
around my years before their time.
There on the doppler: my burnt-out ingle,
hearth of collapsing star. I instruct my ghosts to hold the line
& dream with the same mind in my mind. What for, my liege?
This vault swept bare by gales. I lean against my glen’s
black count: most of all I had has been lost. My line’s last gene.
