Becca floats, starving hellos.
A personal interview, passing comment.
When it was that she began to vanish.
Wednesday mirror, single piece of
jigsaw, two knobs, shaped like Florida,
missing from her chin.
The next day could read the
sign on the door behind her,
forehead window, cells phasing in and
out, undecided whether neither not to be.
Here the options: get better, get worse.
Better the official recommendation.
Worse is easier, duly rewarded by
TV show after TV show.
In between a hyphen, a dash,
static, flat, minus.
Becca releases all the air that she owns.
The water embraces.
She feels the bottom of the
pool at her back.
A figure, above, waves like a
tree in a storm,
cartoon angles blipping, winking.
A pair of hands break the surface.
Becca smiles. Passes out.
From the collection Fields of Satchmo
Photo by MJV