Girl On Fire

edie’s hands crawled
in her barbiturated slumber,
they clawed the sheets,
slapping away imaginary
spectres. she’d wake up
and immediately deny
she’d been asleep.

those hands would have
been better put to use
on the t’ang horse she
never finished in cambridge,
abandoned for the light
of a dying star.

i feel guilty for wanting
an edie in her sixties
finally content with
anonymity. i feel guilty
for the utterly bland
life i’ve given her in
my head, teaching sculpture,
baking bread, equestrian
vacations at bitterroot,
smiling blandly at the camera
and reciting memories by
rote for each and every
warhol documentarian
to swing through her studio.

because it’s wrong to assume
that a spirit in torment
craves normalcy, as if
day-to-dayness is any
substitute for centripetal
acceleration. none of us are
naturally serene; we come
into this world
solipsistic and loud,
furrowed and bewildered.
even in sleep, we are moving.

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