At age 10, I will wake,
a boy already drunk with the ashes of his father.
Eyes inebriated, yet mind still sober enough
to behold his mother
playing pranks with a needle.
Syringe to her right palm,
in her left, cotton reeking of spirit.
She divides the earth into an equator
and sticks the needle into the upper left arch.
Eyes closed in what seem like savoring the…
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