Years ago, at a free consultation, I declinedtreatment for my own; likewise, the squintwhiskers at each eye’s outer edge. Now,with all my elevens multiplied and tallied,I don’t need a mirror to know I can’t eat,fuck, or long-range plan like I used to,my hair thin, parentheses around a mouththat could be my mother’s: Unbecoming,the mouth says, less wounding than before,arriving at a distance from the nearness ofa burgeoning personal necropolis. Unbecoming.Do we use the word anymore? Meaning,then, the one thing. Now, to my ear, two,and filled with potential greater than allits synonyms. The unbecoming, the becoming,the in-betweens: they lean out of windowscurious as children, they take in the air,the sun and all its damage, a viewof something, anything other than themselves.