Orb —Elizabeth Moura

The blue marble I swallowed when I was five
Suddenly pops out of my mouth,
Still as pretty as a decadent’ s prayer.
It makes the sound only a marble can make
When it bounces on its lucid way,
Popping across the floor and under the dresser.
I stretch out on the bare wood floor and look.
We eye each other, one of us a shiny,
Complete orb, the other, a foggy pretender.

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