Elizabeth Glixman

Minuscule drops of red fluid fall
on the white floor
The cold room needs light
Saturated warm color
I am a devil my horns are stiff and scaled hard
above me crowning my intentions
I paint my body inhale on my torn skin
the razor glides around moles and burrowed faces
I am a glazed birthday cake resplendent with the letters of the name
waiting as I turn away
to walk the circus line of sobriety
Nothing else is taunt
Children in bed husband reading
My equilibrium with the red snake cuts
crawls lost arms marked on the floor no motor desire to mop
the lecherous razor light reflections away

Lithe and fuzzy clouds in the wind
The paper in the sky is fleeing
Torn grocery receipts
Seagulls flood the MacDonald’s parking lot
It is spring near the dumpster the grass in the cracks confirm
Debris on air currents kamikaze pilots
Travelers of earth
The sky clouds wrapped in numbers dance
Counting sleep and awakening
Gulls chase spring roll
Wrappers toss on the concrete near the restaurant
I Ching can you hear me

There are words placed around my throat like uncut rubies
In the center is the trachea tube
My voice rises foam upward geysers words toppling backward
My sound is finding its arms
In the hole the careful surgeon cut
The once clear sound
Words caught in guttural whimpering between foam pops
The terrified skin surrounds the apparition
My hands reach inside
the manhole in my neck a dumpster
Seagulls single following wind lifting

I puncture the rest of my body
Starting with the arms
I paint arrange
So raw I will accept the sound of screeching wings easily
Brakes in the parking lot
Star debris rise
Grocery receipts in the wind above the cars
Gulls devour leftover lunch my voice is lost
Everything needs to be in order blunt to the point
When it is silent the sirens sing
And emptiness will not wound me.

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