and so it is here i have come to be a squatter

and so it is here i have come to be a squatter

this side of
death


shadowing door steps, taking residence in
the coffee pot
hissing at spilled drops
and early pours



and at night asleep in the dryer
arms and legs tumbled against hot sheets
baked alongside printed cottons- longevity measured in the shrink of denim

in a cycle's warm lull

and where ever i am , he waits

in the shower when i raise my arm

it is he who calculates and compares
who fingers breasts, eyes my uterus, scrapes my cervix

death who breaches life

a few cells at a time


it is here in this patter of space
that i am a squatter, in the slush of a wrung
washcloth, in the scent of spilled shampoo

in the eyes of a gray cat

sitting fat on a bath rug