That (Poetry)

Watching from afar, folded into subtleties, that good spirit
She sold herself, finally a mother, that good witch 

Like a deal with fingers crossed 
Like the smile in your own punch line 

Locked between mirrors, forgetting who's who, that American game 
Juggling in a chemical circus, Irish remedy, that boiling blood

Like a pot run over 
Like a Sunday hangover 

Hesitating down the marble steps, ritual by interruption, that inevitable sacrament
Snapped into visions, climbing to heaven, that deathly sleep 

Like a body void of spirit 
Like a secret communion 


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