Anne Hucks

2013 Runner-up

You were born in a rolling meth lab
parked on the shoulder while a junkie
worked you out and cradled you in
chalked-white palm, cracked digits.

Right before the explosion that almost
killed you years later, you bought
a scratch-off at a gas station with
a fake. You now think about how
the sun came through the blinds behind
the cashier like a sonogram projected

on the wall. You wonder if your skin
would have peeled off in white patches,
like suds, or crystals, if you would
have been high in those last few seconds,
inhaling vapors that slipped from around

your own skin. You aren’t sure
if your ashes would’ve been buried
in a graveyard, or if your resting place
would have been as restless as your birth.

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