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.