A Buried Top

Cover me please
with a blue bottle, something clear
and watch this introduction.

The air has a way of
(which way)
peeling rounds out of blocks,
just like a spinning toy,

and I was a blocked breech I’m told,
abandoned under the red chair in the corner (dig under the slipcovers)
my mission confounded others,
but air understood.
      - I love it I hate it
      (“I hate it; I love it” -) -
and moved me in searing puffs, held my burning edges vertical.

Dear, please turn fast fast,
lets make something shall we - another beginning, then another hum
then if we’re lucky, maybe a word or two, I’ll smooth you dearest.

Look carefully through the bottle and you’ll see wind-scars,
if you wait a few moments you’ll smell burned flesh,
and that burn will mix with your own air
making new currents
and words.
How will these burn,
smoothly, deeply?

Scars of pink and bright blue cover me, beautiful scars – touch one, trace one softly
from beginning edge
round the fullness
to another beginning. I love these scars.
I hate these scars.

Regina Coll