We Greens have weak lungs, my father tells me,
we really shouldn’t smoke. I already know this,
but keep on breathing with the beefy fungus
welling behind my ribs. Knuckling down.

It’s summer again, and I’ll catch sweet aphids
like sequins in my lip gloss – what’s one more
fly in the ointment – as my meat quivers,
jingles with the sugar riddling up my buttocks
and thighs with every strut-step down the street
in the knee-high leather moulded to my feet.

We Greens have good hearts, my mother tells me,
don’t trust just anyone. Some want to hurt you.
Yet most folks do (have good hearts, that is),
and I’ll keep on aching away with my shellfish
jinx of a heart, thickening. What else is there?

Slow down, my driving instructor tells me,
but we’re not going not nearly fast enough.
Knuckle down. Skin thrumming. My cheeks
are warm, pink bloats. My mouth a soft twist
of flesh. Slowing down – but I’m keeping on.