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Sunday 30 December 2012

Zarina Zabrisky


her hair is crimson-orange

she says, "i'm going to die--"
sighs and goes on, "dye my hair,
since i might lose it
anyway.  chemo."

an airy curtain swirls in the wind.
traces of sundae flavor
hang in the fall air.
chemo sounds
like creamy sweets
in a horror donut shop.
desert is still in the window.

cancer lives in her gentle insides.
i imagine
it is as beautiful
as she is,
as her bluish powder,
her pale freckles,
her silver rings,
her tattoos.

I look at her pixilated print textile,
a sun spark in the glass button,
an illustrated bible on her desk,
a picture of her son
playing with a toy fire-truck,
an unfinished cup
of steaming peppermint tea,

and see death hovering over her
like a shadow of a butterfly

even her death is beautiful


Emptiness the size of the world
Is bigger, blacker than death.

Scars instead of the wings.
Wings withered,
Wings wilted.


Darker than even death
Is impossibility to love.

One is always alone.

Death is only a transit train:
Hell to hell.
Dying will not be hard,
Hell is always hell.


Illusions are the worst.

"Never" has a soothing consistency,
Like a missing limb,
Like an internal wound.
Like the rain bleeding outside--
Again and again--
Black blood rivers.


Death, love--
The same.
Nothing but loss.
Nothing but lies.


Grief is the scariest
When scowling.
My heart used to tremble,
My soul used to soar.


Illusions are more cruel than axes.

Never comes alone.
Always in packs.
Like yellow-teethed predators
Inside my screaming veins,
Eyes burning red-green.


One is always alone.

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