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I do not have to be a wild creature to run away from the cricket inside myself.

I sail to an island. I am facing the wind and the strings are silenced.

My grandfather appears eyeless. In dreams, skin grows

from under his eyebrows and over his nostrils and he glows.

If I am clutching bialy and a slab of salt, he nods and dissolves

like sugar cubes, like pop rocks. That was last year. Twelfth grade,

have you forgotten what a star looks like? A small fisherman of a devastated craft

cupping sea water and wetting his lips. Birdwatchers hold him

in their binoculars. He can’t be that sea bird. No one knows his arms;

however frail, they only hang from their sockets.