Anima

I am never
alone now.

A snake
breathes at
my nostrils.

Sometimes, I
don't know
if he breathes
out or in.

Give it a name;
knit it a hat,
my daughter
says of the
cylinder—
breath on my hip.

What do you
name the
outsourcing
of soul?

I see life
in pieces now
breathe in:
the colors
burn a
dangerous flame
then out:
life blows
faster than smoke.

It's January and
my breath can still
frost the window in
sharp-edged
crystals, which
will not live
to be melted
by summer sun.

            —Mary Beth Kwasek

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