Self-Portrait as the Longest Winter

When I heard about my

father’s death over the phone

the sun fell over my feet

and crumbled on the cold

tile floor it was mid-afternoon

the fan was buzzing

I was sitting on something

that had once been sticky

civilians walked past my

window like ants carrying a meal

for the first time I

felt beautiful like a river

or the light splitting over

the edge of a mountain

I felt so beautiful I forgot

that my cup was still full

and dripping with detergent

a sip turned my mouth blue

stepped me out of language

and set me rolling on fire

in the tall grass lawn

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