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My head was cloudy,
not transparent

as the plastic body
in the children’s wing

of the museum,
but free of charge

you could still push
rows of multicolored

buttons and watch
pain register in the gray

knot of my brain.
Neurons lit up neon

in the different parcels
of my skull. One color

for grief; one for fire.
To keep calm as I felt

flashing, flashing
behind my eyes,

I memorized beat-up
jeans, six pearly snaps

on my cowgirl shirt,
the sky blanched

cigarette white. Then
I pulsed like a strobe,

like seizure. Hush now
and run, light hissed

inside the hot coils.
Run as fast as you can.

Yes, I said, shorting,
still lit. Then what.

© 2008 Maggie Smith