i have lived at least three lives.
two: explosive theory and practice
three: the art of eruption and collapse
those things that entered my skin
closing all exists, have now dismantled.
all the mistakes–
the limbs lost in mine fields–
all the powerlessness that sank inside
this chest laden with fireworks—exploded.
and then was doused.
the dynamite, unsettled,
is now transformed electricity,
which I control, choose,
and illuminate with.
there are no fuses.
there is no gun powder.
this new pilgrimage
with an undercurrent
of perfect voltage.
a beautiful spark buzzing
in an arc over my salty skin.