Nov 142012

by Rachael Peever


I was born to my centennial birthday.

I awoke in smears of my mother’s afterbirth

And the bleeding end of my umbilical cord

Tethering me to her like a kite.

The perfume of my impending death

Slips through my newborn veins.

I am eternally mortal;

My mortality warring with my matchstick pulse.

I learned to speak in old age

And at the turn of my millennium

I scribbled my autobiography in coloring books

With sunset tainted crayons.

My life is stretched across a fourth dimensional wire,

Extending from the dawn of time behind

To the collapse of the universe before.

I – limp and graceless – am skewered in the middle,

Neither young nor old,

Dead nor alive.