Sunday, October 20, 2013


I was freed and reunited with my mother-- who,
like a stroke victim, did not grasp the immensity
of what i'd been through. No more chamomile
feelings, or else it was chamomile all the time.
No in between. No mother slipping away slowly.

I'd had my head out the window of a train
passing through a tunnel. Nearly decapitated.
I should never have had my own head
out the window, but I have this thing with wind
and locomotion. This app on my phone reminds
me to stick my head out the window every time
it's 11:11.

Every now and then I have to move. The pain
is a ball that rolls towards me, forever. Deer sit
in the periphery like unmoved chess pieces
not covered in dust, but slick as seals.

My ballerina self has light on her face which is
looking up to the moon. She is transparent, lace
in her lungs-- something fibrous: an illness which
looks like snowflakes covering the seen
of a wreck.

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