Aging Sequence Poem Three

How will I be in 10 years, the fir tree asks the maple, the calf asks the cow, the baby splutters out I need to know before they publish the writs. I need to know before my head is presented on a platter to Salome Who will follow me? I need to burn my words onto the lips of the living Sort of words before they wither away I need to keep talking to John Donne, Shakespeare, TS Eliot, to settle into Rothko’s rectangles before I am colour blind. I need to keep talking to the grassy spirits With me all day long before my tongue fails My arms hurt from clutching you, heavy bearers of consciousness and beyond. The book age is slowly exterminating Not burning, simply not being born How much time remains for me to hold you, dine with you, lick your words, sort of words while I still can see them Last meal, mine or yours? I see the chamber emptying as I forget words and locations. I need to know how much time remains before the boxing up, the clearing out before I say so I want to howl for as long as I can about the injustice of the finite, the tyranny of counting how much has passed The impossibility of knowing how much is left I return to the present to my wit and recall and my avalanche of discourse About babies and maples and being one in flesh and song I pound to all species I am here I am here I am here Salome, devil reaper, wait before you strike, warn me wave a rag send an emissary to tell me exactly when (c) Anita Lerek, 2018