Voltaic Girl
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I descend to the bottom of a crater,
red bandana tied tight across my mouth,
a kid cowgirl sidling into a noxious
chemical gunfight between elements,
itching for disintegration,
last roars of morning’s explosions
shooting red and yellow lasers
from my Hello Kitty sunglasses—
a herky-jerk out-of-breath pattern
that cools and crusts on the loamy walls
into a gnarled old bone
fingering a smoking pink pool of water
whistling to life under a razoring crag of limestone.
A swarm of eels rises to the edges of the shimmer,
clicking electric and carnivorous,
like an echo through eternity of some crazed, lost angel
buried beneath first stars and wildly knocking
last heartbeats of her universe
into the lid of her sarcophagus of light,
and I kick off my boots and sequins,
leap feet-first into the voltaic, spiraling center—
nose plugged, eyes peeled,
skin charred orange in plunge.
The tattoos I drowned into tell tales,
my movements across the floor
entire dialogues between characters
born in epochs inked upon my limbs—
dramas abiding beneath ages of skin,
each muscle twitch a mummified nuance unwinding,
jeweled scarab-like semantics molting in air.
I dip my finger into the ringing of the cavern
and record each telling
between the margins of stalactites.