I will grow my air into lilac buds
the sickness of lilies.
The milkman will leave empty bottles at my door
for me to curdle into vases.
I will sing psalms on Sundays to the age spots of my palms.
I will not drink pure white chardonnay like my mother
but swill lime juice between my teeth
The crack of moths run floorboards
become hymn whispers.
God will crowd my thoughts with wolf like stalk
I will fish out the familiarity of his lies
and sing psalms to the age spots of my palms on Sundays.
Memories will crowd at the edges of an iron
I will have reached the age of permanent mists
I will climb barefoot summit
watch where the red rivers run merge
sigh a 77 year migraine ache
knowing how I have made more moons rise than you saw.
I will watch on Friday
wring my wrist with lilies
die on a Saturday
and sing psalms to the age spots of my palms on Sundays