Nebenwelt.

Cruz, Cynthia

 When I was seven death Crept into me: black shellacked And
lavatorial, it dragged me Down to its sea of drowned Animals, their fur,
drenched: elaborate Blankets clinging to their bodies. Their eyes,
Swarovski glittering In the brine of the green ocean. I nearly went
blind, then, As it lead me further Down, it drove me to the baby:
Spoon-fed, and senseless. I swam in its murk and Viscera, its worrying
warm milk Whispering to me. Empyrean, My voyage, and I never Woke.
Wandering Into its cathedrals of speech, and Shut doors. Until the world
was a room Of dead eels and mollusks, old black and white Photos, and
maps strung on the walls. I lost my voice. Then the delicate Metal clasp
came undone. Mother, I never recovered. Childlike Inside nay middle-aged
body I am Sleepwalking inside the whirring Factory of my memory-less
life, I am Waiting, impatiently, for the violent White song of the
ambulance Siren when it comes to take me, Finally wake me.