Afraid to have sex, eat a Big Mac with fries, walk
too fast too far, always thinking about the next
heart attack, the invasion of the uterine/ovarian/
breast cancer cells into the rest of my body, or
a cerebral hemmorhage, or a car accident, Spring
waving her hands toward me,"Come on, BE again,
BE...,"making it at times, pouring myself into black
lycra and lace and pushing all the buttons for a
vibratory afternoon, waiting for her to come home
from the hospital (M.D., of all things a pathologist)
for a real slide down the slopes, but most of
the time transparent and soundless, more ghost
than galloper, already dust in an urn on the fireplace
mantle, not even a label or a Requiest in Pace.