World

by Marilyn Gates

 

Since we can only be a person
for one second, I’m glad I chose myself
to end. I ended you, once. I closed

my eyes. I surrounded myself
inside with mirrors, noting
the uncertain greenness. There, you tilted.

Since, I’ve managed, though yet
to learn what to stand other than still.
Petty, I’ve tilted. Hours when the act

lagged the want and I was, yeah, alive.
So not apt

to resolve myself, I resolve myself:
In circularity, in anti

-grace, I quirk me into bliss. Gift.

Take. Sick isn’t fault but when my head
reaches its final innocence. What is violence

if not a botched miracle, safety if not the space
of flesh watching the wound respond. O, the light
this shadow culls. Easy to aim with every arrow warped.

 

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