And sometimes it is loss that we lose, and sometimes it is just lips. When I was a child, I would ask my mother to tuck me in, wrap me tight in blankets, make me into a burrito. Sometimes I would wait in bed, pressing my body stiff, like a board, mind like a feather, silly— setting the scene to be seen. So I could be wrapped. So I could be kissed. And what I miss most, is being made again. Copyright © 2015 by David Tomas Martinez. Used with permission of the author. |
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