Life is Pain au Chocolat

I’m fifty, feeling days shrink like microwaved
wrap, and I cry at the sight of young women
with emotional support dogs. My daughter
says her mother betrays me—I remind her she
cares for her, she’s a good one. I’m fifty—wondering
at why this tiny feeling for truth swallows me whole.

I rejected slow motion treatments for cancer today,
and wrote this folded letter to say goodbye to you.
The Tudor Rose has ten petals—one falls to signify
where Doc stopped the chemo—and there began
a beautiful game of dominoes. I beg you

fill me with real, abiding unhappiness please,
whether the sky is blue, green by sea, or ash;
please fill me with the giddiest mouthfuls, 
nothing makes joy sweeter than this:
that everything, everywhere 
tastes like you—

where dark chocolate pastries bite bitterest  
when I’m alone, to become sentimental confections 
when you smile—and it scares me so, more than dying,
when there’s a bread shortage from your bakery.
How long will I sound for your body 
and howl like a dog?