A hanging cocktail drips to swell 

The backs of feeble hands 

Smoothing out those pesky veins 

 

Fluorescents flicker in and out 

The menthol stench of chrysanthemums

Chokes the air of this white box in which I lay 

 

A dull ache in my torso 

Slouches toward Columbus to be born;

To think it were a baby, how silly 

 

                     Still, I’ll birth it soon 

 

They said they’d fetch a pen and paper 

For me to write a will 

One sweet nurse asking “Hey, aren’t you Warhol’s girl?”

 

To which I muster all the strength 

To bat my lashes and part my lips 

And mutter “Once, in another world.”