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Wednesday, February 8, 2012


Once, when I was 
about seven or eight,
I went to the ocean with my sister. 
And the ocean, 
big and blue, 
thought her so beautiful
that it embraced her,
like an old friend, 
until she too, became like a rock, 
at the 
bottom of the sea.
And I, passing by each day
in the morning,
felt the ocean’s dear hands,
pulling me in. 
Pulling,
pulling, 
lulling,
pulling,
Until I too, 
was a rock,
at the bottom of everything.

Black Ink


She slit her throat
with a knife in one hand
and her baby in another.
And when her parents
came home, they cried.
And when the kids at school heard, 
their faces turned pale.
And when the police came, 
the parents were already dead. 
The neighbors all shook their heads and said,
‘They were all lying there on the floor. The girl,
clutching her baby to her chest.
The man and woman with their arms
wrapped around their child. 
What a shame. They seemed so normal.’
What a shame. 
What a shame. 
And all the while,
the blood poured out of 
the baby’s throat,
like black ink, 
spilled onto the floor. 

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