Afternoon Fay, from her bedroom ripe, streaked in her pneumonia*1,
stands near a sink and severs her pills width, takes by water*2
as spring onion steams from the kitchen pot*3,
and the catcalling young men on television wave*4.
“Geronimo.” she says, approaching the pot, then
“Geriatric. Jerry-rigged. Geranium*5.” which
leads her mind at last to coughing out:
“I have gerontoxicosis.”*6
Her lungs ache, thickly present in sense
like dark bruises*7.
She bends the scallions back and nudges the stalks*8,
woman under simmering water, inhaling slow, above.
*1LeFavre, doctor stated so mild, his energy invisible
*2From tap through charcoal, plastic, metal; filtered
*3Passages clear from most agitation, onion is
a sensual respiratory altercation
*4They exist flatly to appease the notion one can see them
*5Leap off or in; old; patched weakly; flower
*6Angeltoxicosis has admitted its fault is found in
*7Perches of caught later-night vomit have trickled into
airways, infecting, sputtering while sleep is attempted
*8Sailing into onion, tongue a rudder, anchor nasal high