curse

Curse

Don't confuse Death's touch
with the bony cartoon digits
of a Halloween costume.

Death's rendering is ever so subtle,
her finger is precise
flicking one adenine loose
from the fresh, wet nucleotide

like an assassin might nick
the break lines of his victim
letting the red fluid drip slowly.
The car will stop today
at the intersection, but tomorrow
or the next day is always coming.

And so you blunder along
self-satisfied
and all the while the rot begins
nestled beneath your areola,
sending it's roots deep and slender.

This unfathomable thing
is not subject to righteousness -
and when the lump forms
you flail about fat-fisted
cursing Death
but she is long gone

and you are alone.