on this motorbike,
I hold my hymnal
as if it was my first born.
we teeter dangerously close
to the bumpers of trucks,
towering baskets of chickens.
I close my eyes and imagine
that the spokes of this bike
catch the hem of my skirt,
send me sprawling into the street.
somewhere, my mother hears
me fall. somewhere, my bones
have shaken loose.
they burst into snow.
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