..

milliseconds apart

I nosedived from circadian cliffs and belly-flopped
into my viscera. Looking around my heart,
the walls were lined with plaques — accolades abound!

Someone had carved into the scar tissue, “MAYA
IS HERE.” Maybe I’m due for a trip to Statin Island, where
nobody wants to go, but they will: to glimpse freedom.

The blood rushed until I was holding up my crown.
If every follicle is sacred why are my temples exposed?
Each white hair is a sugar straw stuck in a salt lick.

I wake to find my baby pictures lying on my chest,
as if they drifted off to my heartbeat, and not the sobs,
listening to me murmur, oh god, what have I done to you.