They peer at me intrusively
seeing all the lives I have already lived,
return feeling to my cold clammy feet.
And isn’t that just like a re-rebirth
to mimic the feeling of trying to walk around
on legs gone numb
from lack of blood?
A trickle of sensation—
I remember burning my chin on the cookie tray.
too short to know reaching
can be dangerous. Nose-first,
I don’t want to live too long, and really,
Each calming snip, snip
silent fall of hair onto bathroom tile
a singe, a loss
my sixty-year-old self will know
in 2060, when Halley’s Comet returns again
returning me to the softly-turned earth.
My mom gives me a child-like
bob while I hear a whispered
To be young
is a gift.
These black and white hexagons.
What? I ask her
I said, did you have fun
on your trip?