Idiopathic Craniofacial Erythema, Seraphim in Scarlet
The air is not net enough
to catch me. Had it been, I would’ve
cut the rope’s hold with a mirror shard
before unsteadying myself
on the window’s ledge.
The air’s so cold it feels wet.
I remember summers, jumping
off the dock, washing the sting
of sun and embarrassment from my shoulders.
Mom at water’s edge, calling my name,
sounding the same as she did
when I was still an unborn collection
of limbs and impending dreams.
I imagine being unborn. Can a dream
disintegrate if it never materialized?
Falling, I do not blush. My skin is calm.
All the countless times of otherwise
lift from my open palms. Floating like helium balloons
past the dormitory’s top floor, through
clouds, alongside stars and farther still.
If there is Anyone up there, my sorrow
will find him like notes in green glass bottles,
thousands scattered at the shore of his throne.
I hope he reads each one, divvying them up
among angels, their wings and robes stained scarlet
with the blotch of my vanishing shame.