Thursday, July 18, 2013


You told me that when you were born
all fists halted their travels to curtsey.
When you screamed the lights flickered,
the windows looked away feigning interest in garden.
No one wanted. You took all of it--body a
paperweight starfished on top of so much craving.
The want stuck to you, seeped in
filling each stitch of your skin until
you were towel in swimming pool,
grieving handkerchief,
soaked follicles and foam.

You told me about your first love,
the mermaid unrequited--
how her thick waist plummeted when
you threw a diamond into curls of salt.
She liked the shining, popped the stone
into empty socket. When she bit into you
the gift tore muscle from bone, left
you precious from the inside out.

You told me your lungs were their own
sort of jewelry--a collage of mold and moss and pearls.
A breath sworn to be both rotten and sweet--
with one sigh I see you mend a fence, kill a dog.

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