contaminated tears

There’s a plastic pinstripe straw stirring the Pacific

and the giant holding it is only an infant who knows not

the difference, if there is one, between a root beer float

and the float of last dreams parading the iris of the blue sea

that was once her mother, who knows not

the pain of veins overpainting one another, erasing turtles to shells

and shells to dust to memory to less than that

but when she does know, when she reads a book or somebody tells her

this magnificent mother is dying

she will cease to be giant

she will flue down the straw and shrink as a bubble in her own concoction

helpless debris, like the rest of us

looking up at the giant who inherits the storm

the moment before he knows it.

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