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Her name was Lucy.
She looked delirious most of the time
one doll eyeball turned winking upside down
cupid lips and curried dimpled cheeks
orange hair a tangle with thoughts of
get me out of here.
The Sunday we scrambled from the fire
to cook the egg gone bad
in the baby blue and daisy pan
I killed her. Knee across her neck
decapitated her. Grown up voices spilled
down the stairs. Ken watched
her redhead rolled glass eye sinking
I tumbled out the rabbit door.
I ran. She was separated from her ‘ma ma’ box
so her head never cried.
I ran left her there in pieces. That was the first time.


Colleen Carias lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. She creates films as another way of interpreting her poetry.

© 2011, Colleen Carias

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