Improv 2, Week 10

“Womb to Tomb Pantoum” by Kathy Fagan

She was born, like so many of us,
with slightly webbed feet, three
freckles to right wrist , and her
mother’s preference for wheat bread.
She whistles Let It Be
when squeezing cantaloupes to
check for their ripe, springy countenance.
Her nose, once broken in a grade school
frisbee tragedy, had that swift decline
of empires. But her fingers were her
glory, shaped for pianos and carpentry,
campaigning for the propriety of
spools, myths, and exposures.