Hopscotch Annie

Annie resides to the right, below the last rib,a carefully crafted forttucked under my diaphragm, gall bladder just beneath.   She peeks between the foldsglimpsing toward thefleshy foundation that keeps herfrom tumbling into the organelle abyss.  Annie’s always afraid, molding nervy clumps fromher tangled fears, then lobs them hightoward the gray sky, her worried masses land squarelywithin my neuron weave – and she celebrates.   She will be heard today. Without a tantrum-tesseract elevatoredto the misconstrued mainframe or rocks ricocheted off my aortic valve.  I say, “I’m here, what do you want to say, Annie?” Annie sits crisscross applesauce onmy pelvic floor, etching her initials into pubic bone.  She picks at a scab, and whispers, “I’m nervous.”  I say, “I promise, I know what I am doing, and I thank you for being cautious.You help me.”  A string appears, tied to her finger, a bobbing balloon aboveinflated and lofty with compassion.  Annie stops engraving;hopscotches across my iliac crest, realizing it’s high time to find a new

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