I have died many times.

I have been the pastel dust on the palm.

I have been the burnt candle wicks.

the incense smudges like evening

eyeliner.

I have died many times.

I have never been the breath

in fresh ashes. She doesn’t return.

I don’t find myself in the phoenix’s feathers.

I have died many times.

The same dust from the shoes

of a twelve year old girl named

Sarah– who wanted people to call

her “Saga” because she wanted to be

the journey is in my lungs.

She speaks sometimes but it is not me.

I have died many times.