I walk at odds with angles
of the earth, old jerky motions,
hunched from dawn to receding light.

New Year’s resolutions’ already ancient
calligraphy ripped from my journal.
No balm will undo the rot inside.

No gasp of delight or little sounds
of hope with a look at the scale.
No grasp of my yoga mat.

No longer in the body of my youth
but my body now, decades of neglect
pounce before I am ready. But I admit,

I have learned this much, days of regret
douse Neruda’s flames like cool, blue water
moving over my skin’s narrow passages.

My breasts gone with a surgeon’s knife
never had a proper goodbye even with
the angry stroke of my hands in rage.

Long sentences of lovemaking over decades
of a marriage dwindle to a piece of punctuation
but I still press against him in exclamation.

My heart which often urged me to walk more
asks: Are you still here with me? Are you on
the verge of being here but not being here?

Oh, let gratitude last at least until I am
decanted from this vessel containing fluids
and parts of me. I can feel myself burn.

Almost asleep, I am finished with resolutions.
Fire spreads furtively across the night
and scalds when I drink it down like spirits.