I.
Bare-chested on a witch’s rooftop in the gloaming of the volcanic sun, I screamed to make eternity know me. (But scared a flock of pigeons off the roof.) I cried to make the gutters gush me and the earth seep me. (But my tears only watered the begonias in a window a few stories below.) Desperately, I threw my wits against the universe to lodge myself in memory gears! (But found I’d lost my mind.)
They took me from the rooftop with a crane and lowered me into the asylum, and I was deeply afraid. Afraid for my daughter. How would she eat? How would she breathe?
