Wake up

and you are already tired.

Go to sleep tired.

Your breasts are two bruised plums

circled by a drunk wasp.

You are so close to forty.

This was never supposed to happen.

Go back to the time before “time.”

Wake what’s sleeping there.

Make a ladder

of your own silky child’s hair.

Lick the tears

from your own smooth cheeks.

It is all very very tender.

Climb past your small curled self

curl your fingers

over the lip of the bowl

of the inverted world.

You have no idea

how far I’ve come

to tell you this.