the big-eyed queen ll

I hear the rhythmic creaking
of that scrub Elm tree in the
corner of the back yard as
the wind rocks it back to
consciousness

(how it could have been the
lowly Elm that shook the Earth
from its reverie and woke
reclining kings from their
century sleeps)

The pain rushes to coalesce above
my right breast, stabbing in its urgency,
its insistence,
like the child bouncing from
one impatient foot to the other
doing the gottapee dance,

I feel it rotate there,
gathering itself together,
and then before I can even
begin my usual interrogation,
it flies up past my throat
and spills out my eyes.

(and then it’s one foot and then the other
as he steps out on the road –
how much weight? how much?)

I press my tongue against one of those
liquid pain coins and it tastes like
salted whatifs

I feel more than see
the Big-Eyed Queen stir, shift, settle
and sigh damply from her flat purchase
on the bathroom floor.

If these liquid coins
rained down on the Earth,
would it restore the balance
or ruin the soil?

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