That first time I died

I remember the carpet on which apartment

scorpions hid in corners, cloaked

in shade. The first time I died all the baby-Buddha-ness

gone from my eyes, zapped away

in a flashback of fists immeshed with pain

of my teething—the icey ache in my gums dulled

by the sound of his voice overcome hers as light

hits shade and wakes it. I died that first time

he threw her to the ground, sparkles surrounded

her body, and ache purpled inside as I had no words

for one star shooting down another: I did not

make a wish when she fell/I scooped

up the spiders and let them loose outside.