But all your pedestals are altars, Earth,
and I didn't expect to die in my glory,
before the wings of my mansions could uppercut the sky.
At least you let me have my dignity and
lacking that, at least one last cigarette and
a few last words and the scraping together of wisdom
to make them last longer than newspaper headlines.
The sun was never the bullet in this rifle under my chin
because you were always my downfall, woman.
And everybody says, ooh, ahh!