Sixteen : The First Dirt

I thought : I was nearly corpsed.
But not yet. Then I felt for a timer, some color-
filter recognition of ontological fade
inhale steam. exhale plume. Tarmucking

my only chamber
to furnace object relations.

As if that could work. The night swaled
indigo & dark, which wasn’t redundant—
the usual spotlighted lawn gone black hole :
Dad had forgotten to change the bulb.

The house silent then, the walls
scratching the former tenants’ epilepsy
into me, threatening—she was a daughter,
too, in the very same room. I flicked
ash from the open window &
burned to deteriorate as second best
to wrench.