By Jenni Dickson
And then she died. On a dispassionate morning in October
she woke to find no air in her lungs,
which were infested with parasites —
thumb nail sized, ravenous invertebrates
who breathed her last breaths as she sat
propped up on expensive, newly purchased pillows.
The curtains, closed to the light, resisting life
and its ultimate, unforgiving burden. Her sacrifice.
She stared into the darkness, too tired
to face anything but her temporary, perpetual pain.
You’ll be alright, she whispered.
But her words are my unicorn and I can’t
find the magic in them.
They’re lead balloons in my pockets in winter and June,
alcohol-induced slumber at midnight and noon. They leave me
searching for pills when I should be
at work. They lead me down to the estuary,
immersed up to my eyebrows in memories.
Hanging from trees in the park.
They make me question
reality, because I can’t believe —
she left me.
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