Ode to a Parallel Universe in Which Past Self and Present Commune

Ode to a Parallel Universe in Which Past Self and Present Commune

She sits on a throne made of scissors
and yellowing, leather-bound books
that melds and fuses, a mutated tree
reaching sixty feet in the air. Burning
shelves fume a coliseum semicircle
around us. The library smells of charred
ink. She is calm though her feet are
absorbed up to ankle by this twisting
clay of hope. Though a hand is a scissor
blade. Though an eye is just a blinking
marquee scrolling, I am an eye. I ask if
she is okay. She serpents down and replies:
Nothing I do is for myself.
It is all for a distant you.

I am a doll in an unbroken
chain. Days: just paper
dolls. Hand in hand in hand in
hand. A culminating effort.

I have no sister. Only you.
seeing you as separate.

Seeing you as charging
ahead, knowing what to do.
I shut the curtain of time
as if re-zipping fruit.
My hand turns to paper
as it leaves the velvet drape.
The fingers grasping for future
grip are singed, soft-glowing gold.

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