I wish I could be old right now. Rewind me a few months from death, fingers knotted and aching, breath unreliable. What luck
to steal a few hours of age from myself, or a day or a week—work up my tolerance and understand what will go missing,
then, when my life is all poured out, every drop wrung from the flesh
I could spend that week in an unlined face, laughing, skidding on succulent joints, then throw it all off
like a dress that never belonged to me.