reflection volume 54.1

Holy Water Luca Bacci At 8 I lost the Tooth Fairy.

At 9 Santa climbed his last chimney.

So why, at 12, was I so surprised?

Painted by His & Her light, candles just to add the right warmth, my knees carve moons in pleather last resorts.

Each finger folded to hug, as a silver mathematic listens to every thump & bump.

Mid conversation, elbows triangled to support my holy trinity, enter Tom, Arms hugged tight around my last realization.

Stuck between forearm & heart lay 10 gallons of Evian.

Each drop rippling the baptismal font drowns me out of innocence.

Waves crashing around the rim reflect every billboard I’ve ever seen.

Surrounded by gold and incense, I watch every façade crumble in a conflagration of monsoons & vending machines.