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


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