She tugs a spent dandelion
blows the pod apart
watches the seeds float
toward a house dreaming in the distance.
Its rooms are identical to her own,
filled with her belongings--
her blood, her bones, her hair.
Strangers sleep there now.
She cannot see them or feel the way
they move between her body and theirs,
narrowing the gap until
someone who looks just like her
opens the red door to windborne scatter.
Once inside, the part of her that cannot die
raises a fist -- as if that’s all it takes to live forever.