Wednesday, April 22, 2015

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.

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