Sometimes, still, I hold my hand to my eyes
so the sun becomes another thing sewn up
tied inside. I am making a mystery
where none exists.
To see can only be piece-by-piece.
To see an icepick shine, shine, shine.
Recognition is sly, mimicking the edge
between a door & jamb
holding back the empty hall
as if to say don’t come any closer —
but they did.
I held fast to what was safe
when I was safe. I gave up the ghosts
that should have remained reminders
of the randomness in each piece
of the world.
& blood wheeled around my iris.
& a blood-spoiled oasis
became the bargain struck by day
dimming days into another year.
Then: cell by cell the scar allays
its ridge of pink to white.
Then: I know what kind of world it is
by the sound of its emergencies:
Doppler waves of sirens,
red breaking blue.
The box fan bends the smoke
from oil drum barbecues
into anchors that strike the bottom
of my lungs.
What it means to change?
I wanted to kill
the air for touching me
until I couldn’t
& now what remains
is the comedy of it.
How blood filled my eyes
the morning after the night
I said love
the very first time.
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