|Apr/May 2005 • Poetry|
She was cold in summer, and light hurt her eyes,
usually bleak, but bright-emerald when she went
through withdrawals. She didn't want to see,
hiding from light and monsters, choking on fear,
eager to run from an earthquake that never happened,
except inside her, where a volcano covered
her with lava and ashes.
When her bones became blades, she hit the walls,
almost causing an earthquake inside her.
She scribbled No's over her body, speeding,
but stopping at veins, red lights,
nailing me with her glance to the opposite wall.
I balanced near mud, careful with my white dress.