Forty years of doubt and recriminations: It has been a life.
Truth be told, I’ve very few memories of my dozen years of wakefulness. They’re foggy at best. And even those rare memories are smeared and dreamy:
…my mother plays cards with a groups of…
All I want
is my two front teeth
and a red and yellow wall of flame
to separate us. A flickering rise
of firelight to shine
on the remains.
You’ve left me
for the last time. Now
I sharpen my fangs
on what’s left of you.
Sometimes there are five faces
of wow in our breath. You
never knew me. As a child,
howling under ice: still
I am two steps and running away,
never knowing moments of pleasure–
of us dying together so that we might
survive. Yet, what would I do