New Coordinates

The doctor is late and the paper is cold

under my legs as I sit in the light.

I’m looking for signs of getting old,

and find a new mark that wasn't quite right.

It’s a drop of brown ink on a map of nowhere,

a small, quiet tally on the skin of my arm.

It wasn't there when the summer was fair,

before I started looking for harm.

I trace the edge with the tip of a nail,

a speck of the earth coming up for a breath.

Just a tiny detail in a very long tale

that’s slowly, politely, practicing death.