And Suddenly, I Existed In A World Where She Did Not by Shelby Khatami

She was strawberries, little half-crowns of half-eaten heads,

pink and furred, crowned in green.

She was roses, wild tangles of thorns that

blackberries could only dream of,

pinked petals facing skyward.

She was smooth-shelled snails,

creatures emerging after the rain,

she crawled with them in the wet-smelling Earth.

She was rusty revolvers and loose bullets,

carried separately, halved-open and placed on the tongue.

She was redwood trees,

planted roots and towering heights,

burnt-out hollows from self-lit fires

She was locked doors and sediment-layered eyes,

half-moon smiles only half-tangible,

gaze hard and sharp and painfully tender.

She was round-bodied laughter,

wide and vast as broad leaves,

giving sunlight rather than receiving.

She was wet clothes, hosed-off-vomit,

lake-shit-water, ocean-salt-water, piled in corners.

She was the language of stars,

they danced for her, coalescing-crashing

into a tile-bathroom floor,

stilling in the marrow of her cracked sternum,

star-tears welling with the bloody cut on her head.

                      They looked on from the skies as she stopped breathing in the ambulance.