I wake and there’s no pain. The surgeon’s smile
actinic bright. He says I’m young again
a side effect. There’s something in my brain
that kick-starts cells. Or maybe it’s my bile

washes them clean. I’m thin and twenty-five
and just as wise and somehow have to write
novels and poems. And make love all night
to cute young women. Know that I’m alive

awake in every cell. World’s out of shape.
I’ll have to help to heal it. Reread Marx
and then improve him. My slightest remarks
are noted and critiqued. There’s no escape

from pleasure, and responsibility
in which I’m trapped for decades til I die.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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