When I think of it now, I'm wearing jean shorts and a sun shirt--a cotton that almost doesn't stand between me and the wind. It's the first real day of summer, and I'm barefooting through the front yard, toward that streetlamp at the alley's edge where I aimed my BB gun as a girl, where, at midnight, the light went out seconds before the sound of a car crashing a mile away.
That's the way it happens then, the last hibiscus mooning, a single feather drawn over my wrist, a puddle's quick ripple.
What I mean is--when I dream of dying, I turn my back on me and walk into the sunned skin of my childhood, happy; and when I wake, I wonder who will be the last one speaking to me.
Keep talking, then, into the last merry-go-round by four stilled swings, even when you think I've stopped listening. Be the last voice before the sound of the gun and that gold knot's undone. I believe in a wind that never stops moving over my face, even when I've stopped counting the hours.
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