The Sandbox

Amnesia, Art, Healing

Maybe

 

I was fast

Or clever.

Or maybe I knew just the right way

To plead my case;

That if I burst into flames,

That if his temper,

Hot as new stars

Went too far,

He’d no longer have a place

To spend it.

 

Maybe I held my head

Just the right way,

Angling it against the ground

While he pushed harder and harder

Nose into soil

Mouth into soil

Spirit into soil.

Maybe I caught a breath.

 

I don’t need much—just a breath. 

I don’t need much. 

Just a breath.

Just a small breath. 

Just a small break

Between earth and sky. 

Maybe he got bored

Or maybe he remembered me.

Maybe his temper,

Shiny quarters on candy,

Was spent.

 

Maybe I was lucky.

 

But his body, his head, his hair 

Is lifted,

Guilty red wisps 

Still sticking to my neck.

And because I breathe

My tiny death

Goes unnoticed

Mostly by them

Even by me.

 

My memory gets knocked out 

Cold and into college.

Looking without eyes 

I go groping for home

And find her

Because maybe she’ll birth me 

Hot like a new star.

Maybe she’ll know 

Just the right way

To plead my case. 

Maybe she will be fast

And clever. 

Maybe she’ll take in my tiny death

And hold me, tightly,

Love me, slightly. 

 

Maybe she will save me.