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Before the Greeks dissected
the body, and blood spilled
in the Roman Coliseum, no one
knowing what blood was exactly,
the elemental taste of tin,
I wonder if the first queer animal
closed their eyes to the infinite dark
and caught the X-ray
of their interior: rainbow beam
of light bent by glass.
Maybe it would help to later explain
Leprechauns in Irish folklore,
the pots of gold and mis-
channeled mischief.
I could have lived then believing
I was mostly magic.
Pixilated static of pink vibrations.
Electric pulse of muscle
in my disco ball heart.
What I would give to eat dinner
with Mary, the mother
of Jesus, to knead the bread
and salt the fish, and ask what currents
whistled when Gabriel landed
on her window ledge.
If, at night, she ever danced
like lightning. If she ever pressed
her thin fingers to her closed eyelids
and saw geometric shapes,
the pointillist white dots
of stars dying
and being born, the silver
meteoric lines falling against
the dark sky of visions
no one believed.

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