when pointing out the obvious, she would let her eyes roll and spin, the gravity of your ignorance pulling on their tendoned orbits. Specifically, when asking questions she knew there were no answers to, her voice would lift extra high - "How many times must I tell you?", "How many years must this go on?" - the glass of her composurevibrating dangerously, every molecule in distress. Funny, in the end, knowing she wouldn't make it, how high her voice became, how tired those spinning eyes, lostfor glint and glitter, the whole of her shaking like a house, a city, a star, about to belost.
What is the sum of 11 and 9:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.