A Miniature

In my numb mind, a little leather jacket,

the sleeve no bigger than a thumb drive.

In that diminished instance,  

I light a cigarette. I put on lipstick.

 

I’m a version of a self. I speak the truth.

As if speaking French. Haltingly.

Fast forward and it’s me asking air

to save me from the synaptic patterns

 

that dictate who I am alongside what I do

when under duress. I wear a red dress.

A coral neck scarf. A hand (not mine)

covers my mouth. Nature is never fair.

 

Someone sucks the air out of the room.

I am saying no more except to say

that the scale is tilted toward

accident. The accidental. The absolute is.