by Karen Stromberg

With both wrists bandaged
and swimming in medications,
she can still do a double back flip
through your sanity. You end up
facing the wrong way in conversation,
your arm in the air, churning syntax.

"Mom," she says, calmly inspecting
her stitches, "you're acting crazy."
And you see it again, the anticipation
as she waits for you to perform
her favorite trick -- the amazing one
where you slowly sink into the depths
of yourself and rise up, a floating boat.
She copies you, pulls herself inside,
eyes as bright as a Jack-in-the-box
with the music just beginning.

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