*This is part of an ongoing series of poetry by Cecilia Ruvinsky*
When I disassociate,
tiny hands string coral around my neck,
and they run their shadows over my hills and volcanoes,
until I evaporate into mist.
My piano-fingered hands reach out and beg
for something but they do not know what,
and all they receive is my own blood,
smeared in a cross on my chest,
red as oleander.
I throw myself off the Suez Canal,
and sacre bleu,
there goes all I thought I wanted,
and all I see is rebirth.
Rebirth tastes like plastic.