A jaunty dirk — full of promise and feccund,
she strides up the hill to the sun and the constant sea.
Finally, the last vestige of who she was is loosening itself
and as she propels bones and muscle forward along the familiar path, it sloughs off, pink and moist, to land in a gobbet of wobble.
Damn.
No plastic bag to pick it up.
She strides on — and turns to glimpse all that had been her
(innocent, forming and still plumped),
soak into the warm stone — and she regrets it for an instant -
she had been a good life.
Braced, full of knowing, she feels her revealed skin flap darkly around her new purpose.
Dry and loose, it still serves to contain the wet interior of her ideas and beliefs
And it would serve until they too, were wrung out and she was good for nothing -
except forking wine with a spatula.
