Clare Labrador

At night I throw out all the furniture and dance.

             Every time the cracks on my feet dissolve into cracks

on the marble floor, another star dies beside my moon.

                          Where can I keep the bones?

             They’re not like shattered dinner plates in my mother’s cupboards.

                          They’re like ruins of an earthquake lodged at the back of my throat,

                                                             like I had stopped setting an alarm before bed,

                                             like I had locked all the doors before anyone can enter.

Have I vomited all that dust?

             I am too young, and I have emptied myself too much.

Or have I swallowed the sun?

                                    I am weaning off my medication, and the monsoon

                                    in my stomach must be the world being born.

Maybe this is how morning begins — light burning holes

                       through my chest, leaking out of my skin.

                                    Every month stolen off my youth will find me.


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