I anesthetic back from ten,

by Aidan Castro


                         opened my lids to find

my brain stem reattached

                         and bound by staples

stretched across my chest.

                         This body that is now my body

runs tangerine through trees.

                         My calls to god sutured

rippled water to the rain.

                         I reach into a Scrub Jay’s nest

and crack open each inhale,

                         and I exhale desire

for many more years,

                         more than wishes for concrete

shoes and an ocean walk.

                         I nest in further

and pick my eyes one socket at a time,

                         wash them in soft dirt,

and put them back in to find

                         every head tilt refracts

the earths light and colors.

                         I try to grab them all out of the sky,

as if they will fall and be taken

                         from me again. I swallow

what could fit in my hands.

                         I am all the shades of red

that weep into drainage tubes

                         pierced through my side.

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