a beauty company sent me an email,
‘We win, you win’ it said, invited me
to purchase youth serum at half price.
Something I hate about emails
sitting black on white on screen:
comma after verb, mistaken for
philosophical pause – breath taken
when reading loud poems.
‘Please, do not reply’ it carried on
‘we hope to see you again.’
I have a hundred things to do
but rush to the bathroom,
see how deep my forehead lines
have grown since I last checked.
Skin tracks’ network show
how much I’ve won in forty years
of living too small, dreaming too big.