Riddled (new version of "Anyway"

I wish to die a slow death

riddled with something

incurable -

lose my mother tongue

the ability to smell fries and vinegar

or new rain on the fur of spring violets.

My cat curled, pushed

against the weak flesh of my belly

her purr a movement of fur

keeping time to the metronome

of the bedside clock,

my breath a rattled score

sung to the earthworm turn of seasons