And Remake My Bones

 
I was old at my birth, teeth fallen out,  
fetid breath sucking at slack corners.  
  
Pushed a walker as a toddler does that toy  
shopping cart, putting in all the colored pains.    

My veins were black and bulging at five,  
knots and ropes writhed beneath thin skin.  
  
I could bruise by breath alone: barometric  
in relief, like friezes on the inside.    

The middle age occurred at 4:01 AM  
last Saturday, just as I turned twelve.    

My eyes no longer tear, my tongue is sere,  
as youthful flush eviscerates all moisture.    

Menopause marked my adolescence  
with congealed blood and petrified egg.    

I wait for the viper to worm from my navel;  
for morning to break, and remake my bones.