Jill Bolte Taylor's Stroke of Insight

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Monday, October 5, 2015

After the Festival

Steel-cold and hard as the moon
the rails of the fairground arena
that burned my forehead where I leaned
against them while you told me
how destined and gravitous it was
for you to fall in love
and drag me down with you.

I should have listened to that ache
and not the words spinning
from your mouth like cotton
candy from the hands of the man
whose booth draws children
like bright bees.

No sustenance there, only
unbearable sweetness and later
the crash into gnawing hunger
that smacks of neglect.
Your kiss stayed in my mouth:
the dry tint of dust and kicked-up glitter
and the song in my head
that sticks for far too long
after the last band has packed up
and pulled on down the road.


KB 10/2015

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