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Quiet, I was getting ready
to be that lovely spill
of golden light and I think
I understand that life-mask,
learning how to die, shaken,
the usual self turned back onto
living on that queen’s apocalyptic
moment of combustion,
my broken body almost running,
cheeks flushed gray, cool, intent—
God’s voice was a great weariness
and I almost swung by the wrist
in the dusk, hanging hunted
calling for mother.
This is an erasure poem. Source: King, Stephen. Christine. New York: Signet, 1983. 45-47 Print.