Obituary

I hate Sundays the way that Christians might hate God;

almost fictional in their magnitude.

it's the expectation-

it's the charm I lost-

dropped it down the sink maybe

or maybe running for the bus;

I'm not who I am anymore;

I hate Sundays for that.

I know that I like damp autumn cold

Soggy leaves- the quiet of cars and swollen fingertips

Trying to skip to the song you like.

I'm now a mother's hips

Skin clothed by creases and frown lines;

Filo pastry.

I'll be sentenced to Sunday roasts soon enough.

Great despair.

Insurmountable loss.

Grey hairs and bruising skin.

Look at you woman

Look at the way that you age

I hate Sundays for that most of all.