A brown paper bag. soggy
Like it had it all before,
air-filled lungs and good circulation—
A pile of dead limbs.
I flail my arms to keep them stinging.
A black pearl inside an oyster. A name on the side of a pirate ship.
I wear a patch over my eye so there’s less of me to look at.
I watch the brown paper bag float by, on the bag the writing: “gone fishing"
in big, blurry letters. It weeps for me and my dead arms.
I don’t know why.
It leaves particles of recycled paper in a wake of tears.
I’ll stop flailing now and let my limbs go limp.
The soggy paper bag picked up by the black pearl pirates—
transformed into a hat.
