. . . the sounds
of morning, of people
succeeding, of people helping
others to succeed . . .
you crouched in the closet, you were
a good little girl, you had done
one of everything;
it will become
clear to you why you
offered yourself to your own destruction
believing he was all
power and consequence—or didn’t
offer, no, that’s not it, go on now—
Isaac put himself on a slab
thinking he owed him something
in an eternity based on sacrifice;
and doesn’t fear give the child
some position in space?
because at the edge
of your becoming, something kept trying
to erase you . . .
he implicate
gold, the violin-
brown of your hair . . .