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the woman cuts into her veins
with a kitchen knife simply
as she would open a can of sardines
    because she doesn’t want to grow old
a feeble angel
a corpulent doctor and a four-eyed assistant
are a dubious group for this dirty work
their idealism makes the head spin
and the stingy sun set behind the kiosk across the road
how can she escape
    how can she flow through the knife’s narrow cut
and which pathway should she surrender to when
        everyone, without exception, is against it
а whirlwind carries her through the spiral of the aorta
        with such ease . . .
the doctor brings a mirror to her mouth
        he thinks – the woman often reconsiders
but, get out of here, never, because when her mind is made up
        then her mind is made up
the woman, you know, is a stubborn soul –
God forgive her