All the many things

That broke that day,

being too stark to mention,

clustered hard into a lump

that lived in the back of her throat

always ready to stop her 

breathing

And neighbors with hearts of cherry pie could stretch their minds eyes as wide as they might see

And still

Never

See

Her

They could scrape great efforts from bowls of scribbled theories 

or mix together twisted scriptures

To deliver her the 'truth that hurts'

even Jesus' heart

and she would still be 

sleeping with her eyes open

Dreaming vivid things,

ill and wild

as a mad black wave,

trying not to 

take the train

her mother did

before it was even literal