Faded lines, the labyrinth, the times you threw me overboard

[Doreen Peri]

(2005)

I have kept your scribbled drawings
of the union of amoebas
and fireflies in my dresser drawer
next to my gold heart locket.

The napkin is faded, torn.
I can barely see the lines
you drew just as I can hardly
recall the ones you spoke.

I have run out of rooms to take refuge.
This labyrinth is filled with mud air from your exhale,
so thick my lungs become caked.

Each time you throw me overboard
into the fire pool, third degree burns on my
heart, my skin thickens, I grow
snake layers which easily
peel off when I resurface.

This time,
I remain on the deck,
a Jesus amphibian,
a fireproof fish,
ready to walk atop the lake of fire
or navigate through blue flames to shore
with my fins, where I will not attempt to hide

from you, since inevitably you will hunt me down
again to attempt to drown me, then reach in to
pull me out with hands which have no fingers.