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Nov 2015
There is an ocean under a lake under a sky under an earth.
I am digging under the carpet.
Carpet. Carpet feathers everywhere.
The body of water moves, misses something.
Here. Always pulling. You know about gravity, and sadly never understand it.
Circle sky of stars embedded in basalt caverns.
The water is the ceiling. The universe spirals into the infinite mirror.
Under the carpet, mother’s old photographs of you.
Still of you and the men who touched you.
Flocks of bats discard each other in reverse.
The mirror moves, breathes her wings towards the ocean.
I have forgotten how many I have slept with, sit on the bathroom floor
drawing circles in the memory of what if.
Deep earth. Hand drawn circles in bone. Mother moves inside you.
I am crying and do not know which time it is. I light a cigarette in the mirror.
The water touches on something. There is a vacuum of time you exist in.
Milk bats nurse from the black hole at the center of the cave.
The bats have gone now too. Feathers. Feathers everywhere.
I am wet but not here. The sheets are wet. There is an impression of someone
next to me.
At some point I realize I can’t go home.
Chelsea Chavez
Written by
Chelsea Chavez  Fairfield, CA
(Fairfield, CA)   
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