She is used to the insistent geography of ageing,
the body’s muffled crease and fold
beneath eyes, breasts, belly;
the gravy thumbprints on the back of her hands,
the seize of muscle at the knee.
This is a detour off the map, stripped of signposts,
thick with monsters. She hugs her own skull,
brushes away the loose caul of hair
and is born into a new life, after;
made of tough dust.