One; you wake up in Belize, you knees in the air, they prop the light linen of your bed spread; it’s noon and the gulls sprawl like lazy compasses in mid flight, shooting you back glittering reflections of a sun at azimuth.
Two; you wake in the hospital; having the last biopsy of your life; your seven years clean of your rare breed of tunneling burrowing cell mutating ailment; you die quick of lung fluids in your eighties; too long to wait.
Three; you wake in the Marriot on the highway sprawl of eastern Tennessee; your not alone; you’re traveling with a lover or a friend or a lover; your going to get married and he will never know any of the real things that I know.
Four; you wake with the sun in your face; it beats through the tinted windshield of your minivan; everyone in there tolerates you successfully; you need to pick stuff out for the wedding.
Five; you wake after painless birth; but it’s not fair that it doesn’t hurt; life should reflect birth; life hurts; you have very few scars; your husband never suspects its not his.
Six; you wake in time from your nap to attend your child’s dance performance; this bears particular importance to you; you couldn’t drop dead until this happened; you still don’t drop dead; he/she dances exquisitely; you used to be a dancer.
Seven; you wake from a nap on the sofa with a frail memory at hand; you have a startlingly clear recollection of the past; you have the feeling of love that exceeds that of your last twenty years alive; you return to sleep with a smile; you ignore reality a second time around.
Eight; you wake and make it to the restroom by yourself; a long piss that is actually not too acidic today; you can wear the same underpants back to bed; what a wonderful night.
Nine; you wake and sit upright with a startle; you remember all the faces looking back; oh, yes, pictures of people long gone and chased from you life; you miss your husband but its nice not having to take care of anyone; you take a moment to appreciate your independence.
Ten; you wake in the nicest wing of the retirement facility; goddamn lucky that your favorite illegitimate child became a true success and in their efforts to rush you out peacefully, enrolled you into a happy home of the inevitably declining. You can read books and stare out windows, this is what we always wanted; you’re thankful that your sex drive has withered like a raisin; happiness is a moment without desires…
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