Waiting for Fire

By | 23 September 2001

She's out again,
crushing rocks
with her eyelids.
While you attach tennis raquets to your back
and call them
She's turning cars over in the street
and scraping out their guts with her bare hands,
hoping to find a cage big enough
to hold the way she's feeling,
until she knows what to do with it.
While you wash your hands in gasoline
and wait on her front porch,
knowing that when she gets home,
she'll need a cigarette first
and then,
she'll need
a light.

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