September 22, 2011
not even doctors can
fix us
she lies under the streets.
people look for her in the sky, but really
she is beneath them.
she is a python
(or maybe an apple tree).
I walk past smokestacks and
fire escapes and
something is wrong with my mouth.
I can only grimace.
I spit out insults
(that aren’t mine)
like broken teeth
(that could be mine).
there is cigar smoke in my throat
even though I’ve never touched a match.
I choke out whispers
as if I’m in a hospital.
a sunset makes
a fire take
the trees and all around them
the birds are choking, too.
and then I remember:
she borrowed my lighter that morning.
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