I feel age creeping up my lower back again

Andrea Krause

cauterizing like an ace scalpel on a clandestine sear. 
I arch in surprise, I assumed maturation emerged 
flowing top down—I’d sit by the window, laser 
sneaking beams over my shoulder, targeted 
stinger zapping spiced honey. I’d go up, fragrant 
charcoal and saffron strings, singed and skinny. 
Instead, I’m a pilling La-Z-Gal, reclining 
sacrifice to institutional exhaustion. My body 
stows trash compacted feelings, borrowed 
shame always conks a nap on my shoulder, 
gesturing wildly into trusting eardrum. 
Thankfully, shoulder pads are en vogue again. 
My orthopedist says my X-rays and circling
vultures show only pettiness. Like others 
in pursuit, I wonder what it means and keep 
walking. Down the street, there’s a vacant 
mouse to sidestep, turned over to flies. No time 
for grieving, only mowing the lawn 
in the rain because there’s a schedule to keep.

Andrea Krause (she/her) lives in Portland, Oregon. Her work is published in: The Shore, Maudlin House, Autofocus, Kissing Dynamite, and elsewhere. She hovers in a low cloud on Twitter at @PNWPoetryFog.