Wednesday 11/14/2007 01:12:00 AM

Submitting to the X-ray she assumed they'd find nothing inside her. Blank organs in their powdered wigs. A map to nowhere. A round world pounded flat to fit inside tight pockets.

Drawing the window with an empty pen. Trying on the Devil's nightgown while walking in God's slippers. There are pictures to make to dampen the thump of the future pounding on her door. Songs like wars fighting over crippled moments.

Seeing the bones she thought of how hollow they must be. To fit all that marrow inside and still have room for movement. She pictured tiny Shakespeare's in plays culled from unripe fruit. Green apples on the ground like clocks with dead batteries.

She writes in wine knowing it will age with her. She's practical in a foolhardy sense. She's ready for life to start and waiting for the world to end.

It hasn't been long enough, but it will be soon the skeleton insists. As she pulls it from the closet in a cloud of dust.

Ready to be ill.

It's so fulll.

And so empty.

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