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What I Remember About Dying - Evyenia Downey

1.


Sweat slick.

Firm grip.


A knuckle carved trail

to an open mouth.


Silent oh,

but my god,

I’m sorry

for not calling

your name.




2.


Pop

as it often does.


The strength of

a cross stitch

against a loaded eye.


Tell my mother

of her handiwork,


of the holes

in the lining

she sealed

with warm milk.




3.


My cheek twitches

with the snickering

of an open fist.


Arms fight

their little hairs

curled into hooks.


My knees kiss

the pavement


and I hope

you greet me

just the same.




4.


No time now

to wait or thin out

like newspapers

at day’s end.


Find them.

Burn them


at my cold

cold

feet.




5.


Hard water.

Red sea.


Wait

thirty minutes

before swimming.


A ringing

in the ear

splitting tide.


I forgive you

for calling my name.

 

Evyenia Downey is a writer and poet from Toronto, Canada. She has an MFA in creative non-fiction from the University of King's College Halifax and a certificate in poetry from the University of Toronto. She write about relationships, identity, and mental illness.

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