Six and Twelve

My skin is pigmented from milk and ash -

too pale

they say,

too pale

and too much peach blush to change that tone -

(I don't know if its a side effect

or a symptom.)

I have the date circled on my calendar;

the one that shakes on the wall when the door slams.

Six months ago

(anew)

unto

a house of limbs divided.

Six months ago I died -

candle wax anniversaries and I'm raising my glass in a toast

toward gentle paramedic boys with tender fingers

fluttering over a dead girls wrists.

I don't really remember my twist back to life,

just the glass

(shattered)

and the clouds

(scattered.)

I could be called a newborn again

already twenty years into life.