without needles; disappear
into holes once mistaken for play.
’Twas neither fun nor game today.
That version of me still lives
behind the Ethan Allen sofa
without a cushion cover,
twelve years old and capable, briefly,
of empathy, sympathy, kinship—
god-awful hours in digital depths
we are warned of yet never heed.
God damn how that spirit gripped my wrist,
wrestled me to the dirty floor, dog hair
matted into the shag, and as an adult
I can still be there
when everyone else is dead.
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