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I knew I was injured, but I thought the bleeding was under control. I thought it was a surface wound – situational, temporary. But as the numbness subsides and feeling returns I am getting the impression that I was quite wrong; the cut that I thought was surface deep was actually much deeper into myself than I realized.

When you play with knives, you kind of expect to get cut.
But that wasn’t a knife. And I wasn’t playing.

sirens calling, wailing, whispering – how do they know my name?

The lighthouse keeper must have fallen asleep. Or perhaps the power went out. For these rocks couldn’t have just been left here unmarked, their jagged edges waiting to impale. Murderous teeth hidden behind lips of silky blackness. That would be cruel, unfair.

My dad did always say, “Well, honey, life’s unfair.”
But then again, he also told me that the covered hay bales
in the fields were giant marshmallows…

As the ocean and sky reunite, I am caught in the middle. Blown by the wind, tossed by the waves, pelted with rain. They must be angry with one another, the way they are lashing out. Violent black and stormy blue.

Maybe it’s just a front.

my hands, red-handed

I wanted to answer.  But the thoughts were written on driftwood drifting and the rain in my eyes put salt in my wound, bitterness flowed and the tide brought them out and in and out. I wanted to answer. But this whale of a pet is weighed by tastebud barnacles and there are bricks in my back and I am floating, floating, watching, watching.  “writhing configurations of weeping.” the backpack is heavy, so heavy. my hands…they’re blue…”I’m cold,” Snowden whimpered. “I’m cold.”

His white jacket, brown skin.

“He was adding his own post-assessment question, Then what?”

I was adding my own post-assessment question – then what?

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