I am half
I ate for.
I took my son to a bowling alley and gave him an egg.
my daughter’s sense of touch
was so delayed
she lost sleep
of all the things that had turned into her hands.
communion was god’s plan to leave heaven.
at birth, your life flashes before your eyes. you have a brother and with him think that if one could record the exact moment of your mother’s dying, her death will disappear. the drink in your glass is made from the skin that couldn’t bring itself to be your mouth. some of it is crying but most of it is putting the word fuck in its place. out of necessity you create a crow that you might be warned of its crow-like replacement. your hands stick to what they know.
you strike me as an invasive listener. I love your body. loving mine doesn’t mean I’m not okay wearing too many clothes. does this make me look alone? like, crucifix-on-the-dashboard alone? my mother fell for my father because he couldn’t find a finger to write with. horror movies lift me from poverty into a long period of healing followed by a jump scare. earlier, before you bled into a corncob, my brain had you as a spider spinning an infant. if it pleases god, I’d like to go somewhere time hasn’t been.
our impossible guest, the inventor of vicarious living
mom would start in on god so fiercely that we became preoccupied with doors. we got to saying and I’m taking the baby with me at the close of anything said with passion. by the time our speaking allowed for speaking parts, you’d think a cameraman had asked to use the bathroom. father had his moments. being thin is an adventure. this egg has given me an idea for a different kind of chicken.
agewise, I was closer to my parents than most of the kids I knew of.