Smoke rose in blue ribbons

hitting the ceiling with a resounding brown stain.

And looking, for you had to look,

the crack got bigger.

Opening wide like

admitting  a speculum.

Or a man, I guess.

 

Yeah,  it was all very clinical.

The orifice that I entered.

White, blinding,

shooting pains into our eyeballs.

And then she came, the angel, coming to

rest on my shoulder.

Cross-legged, pursed lips.

Golden hair.  You know the ones.

Renaissance.

“What the fuck you been doing?”

it said.

Well, we hadn’t be introduced yet so

I shrugged.

 

So I said “nothingk!”

like I didn’t care.  That I

was gonna show you!

Shrugging, again.  Teenage

Again.

“Fucking get yourself

back down there.  Sort it out.”

 

Oh.

 

So I did.  I got out of the

vacuum I found myself in.

And I opened my mouth

and my life vomited.

Projectile.

It would, wouldn’t it

when you’ve held on.

For so long.

© Jacqui Thatcher 2014