determine my age
based on my isotopic decay,
the half-lives in which i’ve contracted
resulting in beta putrefaction,
ah yes, you.
my nucleic alpha
leaving me an isobar
where i pour undistilled ferments,
the rims of my beakers,
mouths of rabid dogs
howling for the return cosmic rays,
ones that delineate our fossilized occult,
my cult that transpired into
an exponentially rapid radioactive disintegration.
By Grace Mooney Anderson