This week was canicular in Paris 
and my tiny flat turned into a convection oven, 
cooking the crimson tiles,
the pears I forgot to put back in the fridge
and the blood that stains my summer dresses.

I feel I have aged ten years in the past 
two months.
Since this summery surgery,
every clumsy move is tedious.
For each person that looks at me, hopeful,
and tells me they’re so ​glad I am doing so much 
better — 
there are so many steps I have not taken
and missed trampoline jumps.
I must heal, faster,
in this putrid heat.

Yesterday, I came back to my Parisian flat
and opened the door on the third floor, panting, 
before laying down on the sofa mat, 
panting for so long. O, the staircase!
This dull August did 
indeed take my breath away 
on a post­-mortem honeymoon.

Facebook reminded me that one year ago
I ran twenty six kilometers in Dublin in a row
Today my step counter app scolded me
for prolonged inactivity;
no gaudy medals this summer, 
no golden trophy.
no go

Every morning the nurse comes in at six thirty
and I feel helpless as she cleans a wound I would not see 
Did she not insist on describing 
the moderate healing
to what’s left of a human being
She says I must ‘eat a lot of protein
and keep stocking on codeine.
Just. in. case.

Ten years older, none the wiser
I have read many books in August in my suburban chrysalids 
But ​none of them did tell the tale of aging
Better than my wrinkled sheets and crumpled eyelids

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