There’s a dense fog, and from it comes
A silverfish. Won’t you pick it up?
Put it on your shoulder and feed it:
Raspberry drupelets, dust, the crumbs at the bottom of your toaster, the dead skin
you bite off of your fingertips, dog food?
.
I think I have been eleven for the last twelve years.
Flesh stings from chafing and crying, and the dead skin, bits of fluff,
collects at the top of something I cannot yet reach and, perhaps, will
never be able to.
A box of baby teeth sits on my dresser, untouched.
.
To be known, to feel the heaviness of your hair on your neck.
to be a calf at the county fair, unable to speak,
and your mother does not know you.
Spread out the tarot cards—
I pull Judgement, reversed.
.
.
.