qarrtsiluni

On waking I think of death, or rather decay—my hands
are violently folded in towards my wrists, they like to bend
that way, a fox curled up in the snow, the flesh covering

my veins bunched up into ridges. I imagine the joints—
a door flung the wrong way, tendons stretched too far and fraying,
and apologise, straighten them out, hoping these small kindnesses

might pay one day, remembering to keep my back hoisted straight,
to take my vitamins… and my body tries its best, washing away
the broken bits, spitting out the waste, but nevertheless

pieces are breaking off my bones, muscles are slackening like perished
elastic bands, skin is crinkling like a peach too long in the bowl.
A million microscopic deaths a second. I straighten out

my wrists, knowing tomorrow morning I’ll do the same,
hoping I’ll be lucky enough to wear like a leather sofa, softening
over time, keeping hold of my creases, my old frame bending

and cracking in places. Lucky enough not to be stopped
by a bang in my chest, felled by a terrible blooming of cells
in my breast. Lucky enough to feel the years in my wrists.

by Fiona Robyn

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