Friday, November 02, 2012

One of My Bizarre Dreams, Draft II

Sunday Outing

She had white pustules
packed tightly atop
knots of red, foundations
for infection, overwhelming
as city streets,
running from forehead

to fingertip. Her hair
was colorless brown,
cut with stolen scissors,
layers blunt, obvious as agony.

She reached out to touch my arm.

"Don't do that," I said.
"I've already had it."

I pulled away,
felt my own cheek,
showed her the skin
on my hands, my wrists,
those soft places smoothed
by toil and miracle, by continuous
treatment and care.

"I can't let it come back," I said.

I folded my hands in front of me,
made my way down the theater aisle,
edges beaded in light,
guiding me to plush red seats
where my family sat,
waiting for the play to begin.  

Draft 2
Nov. 2, 2012
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