Spine Worm

It’s 8 am.
I’m on a bus to New York.
One hug away from breaking down in public.
don’t touch ANYONE.
Avoid eye contact.
Don’t Panic
My plastic smile is fabulous
whether I am
or not.
I’ve desperately needed an ending for months
but I knew months ago
this is never ending.

Time’s shrinking, you’re the last gasp
before plastic’s pulled
over my face,
slick fill mouth and nostrils,
wrinkling against open eyes.
Thin death tugs my eyelashes
but you’re in my lungs,
mingling with recently illegal blue cinnamon
saving my life.
Without you I’m slug bait.
Can’t wait.
My father calls to tell me when and how I’ll die
sounds so poetic
but it isn’t when you live it.
Preoccupation with mortality is an occupational hazard for ministers.
Mama never left the stage,
she just acts out different dramas.
When antique ashtrays flew through the kitchen like zeppelins,
the blonde schoolgirl I used to be hoped for a new Daddy
but we never had room for a pony.
I’ve always been a preacher’s daughter,
and now I’m an artist’s lover.
I scratch at the back door
let me come in
curl up in your lap.
sleep on your pillow
touch your hair.

You're the sunshine I need.
Pour over my fragile skin and
burn it off.
I will rise from my ashes,
looking for you in the sky.
If I can't find you,
my remains will sketch a picture of you
on every reachable flat surface.
maybe someone will direct you to me
if my smoke signal is black enough.
The seat next to me is always open,
if you’re you.
Thank God you are.