taking her apart

She drinks beer out of plastic cups and
thinks about mortality.
She feels death sprout from her like
crocuses in spring soil,
danger hugging her to itself like
soft moss embracing hard trees.
Every fluttering eyelash, every
movement in the corner of her eye, is both
nothing and everything.

She sits on liquor-stained couches and she is young.
One more night makes her invincible until she
puts head to pillow and
remembers that she no longer dreams.
She's made of blood and bones and she's
made of iron and fire.
They can drill her and cut her and
put her back together, but she always is,
she always was, she'll never be anything but
whole.