Our childhood was a science lab,
A brackish, incubating underworld.
An all-night pharmacy of bright pink
Pills. And the military doctor with his
Throne of medicine, an ossuary of bones.
That dead room of books and sun-bleached
Skulls. No one could protect us. Death
Lurked around the corner, a wild white
Pulse. Incessant drone, sweet hum
Of the animal. Compass with no needle,
We grew old on that waste riddled junk,
With no pilot, no anchor, no map.
Just the warm current of death
Steering us nowhere.

Enthralled, I let loose
The brave and beautiful

Lions from their mean, metal
Cages,

Crush the pulse
That raced the ambulance.

Flammable,
The delicate stars

Begin their dimming
One by sour one.

Upon my palm, a bloom
Of bright red

Blood. I destroyed
My body inside

The car crash,
I never had. Spent a lifetime

Inside a box, my mind
A sea of tyranny.

I crawled the long corridor
To the kitchen

Where the windows never stop
Always opening

And closing. Smashed
Ophelia, then floating.

In a glorious red silk kimono,
An army of pin-pearls, and

Diamonds, bulleted
Into its butterfly folds.

Never, mother says,
And licks shut

The cold black box
Of memory’s coffin.