Monday, March 6, 2017

Skillet



How old were you
when you got hit by that train
and afterwards stood up, unscratched, unscathed?
Where were you when you first set yourself on fire
and strolled calmly down the street until
the rain dowsed the flames?
You didn’t mind becoming a pillar of salt
until you noticed all the deer creeping out of the woods,
all of them staring right at you.
You didn’t mind falling from the 92nd floor
because you knew there was no pavement solid enough to stop you
from passing right through the world,
emerging feet first from the Indian Ocean.
The sailors who discovered you there
would go on to tell the story
to anyone who would listen
in the nursing home lobby, in the food court
of the mall, at the pancake dinners at the fire hall
where you wink at them from the kitchen
and grin as you press your palm against
the sizzling skillet

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