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signs of accidents but not the thing

what do i do with myself is a question. wish i were hunted. wish i were in pain. no reason but myself. how to not sink into a stupor? how to not waste minutes? how to think of time altogether differently. what i want is pure experience and she is just decoration. unravel the red doors scattered throughout the room.

i came here not knowing, names flying around. nothing sticking. a sickness for many months (do not even know where i am) and then the island for those with the scar. large pools i think i drop my names into. heavy island time filled with the ghost hands. could not see for the mist of them laced back to back. an aura of damage hangs about you now. one eye looks left one eye looks right a hologram until you disappear.

i could have left you there and been a comfort. surrounded by accident beads. one into two into three. i swear i am more than this. you know about my emptiness it’s a shared thing. turned black turned large turned back turned bone in my hand.

rings of remembrance. downing ships. lightning hair. all of her was unstrung. only thing clinging. miraculous lactation. joan of arc eyes. i am slowly making my armor. stalking you in my armor. peeled mouther. you are so heavy in the way you say my name. absence of my name on the shield. i am longing for the pendant of myself.

go back to the hunger. empty bowls placed in front of a sick dog. i wandered on the water’s edge waiting for a sign to drink. i heard something in the night i never thought i would hear again. i made a pact to become rock. swore oaths to oaks. and there is a cold white one in the middle of the stream and i am checking on you all the time.

young girl bodies growing in the land of ferns. short tree covered mountains are actually the oldest. i left my little thing in the low ceilinged place. earlier i was in the land of no boundaries no sound. a russian cargo ship filled with frozen chickens slowly passes me on my raft of old basketballs. i have to work on this backwards, not allowed to see the front til i am finished. when i am dying i think i see a horse in it. get this shit stained dog away from me it had no choice but to wipe its ass on the rug.

originally published in Mistress—an online journal of poetry and short fiction