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Domestic Hallucination

Veronica Schorr


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 young

too short to know reaching


can be dangerous. Nose-first,

pain second.


I don’t want to live too long, and really,

who does?


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?

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