stomach a lump of clay on the wheel

dip my hands into water

let them part the seas

 

the clock reads 11:13

late for being late

 

a jasmine plant grows

on my windowsill now

yesterday

I picked the small dried brown blooms

tangled in the living flesh

I dropped them onto the soil below

and considered them for a time

 

the day before,

a faded rose,

sitting atop my bookshelf,

fell to the ground

in a moment

that would otherwise have been still

 

I spent the next hour peeling its leathery petals

the outer layers a pale pink

turning browner and browner

 

I tried to wrest free another layer of skin

when black spindly seeds burst forth

like so many dark tadpoles

collecting on the blanket spread across my knees

I thought about viruses and the undead

 

I feel murkiest now

on my surface

stained glass in shades of amber and grey

a small moth rests inside my mouth

I let it flutter

or pin it

wriggling

to underside of my tongue

 

I haven’t bled in months and now it all comes

staining my clothes

I feel uncontrolled for the first time in a long time

 

I run through floodwaters

watch the rain form waterfalls at the edge of the sidewalk

these new rivers rush past the traffic lights

no stopping

not now

not for this

 

when I get home, I slather blue goop on the clothes

watch all signs of red disappear in sloshing bubbles

 

like it never happened at all

like none of it did

stomach a lump of clay on the wheel

spinning this working art and I

dip my hands into water

watch their murky reflection

let them part the seas

let my skin time travel

the clock reads 11:13

I make a retroactive wish too

late for being late

I miss the missing

 

a jasmine plant grows

out of itself

on my windowsill now

how old can you call this being

yesterday

mourning beneath the sunrise

I picked the small dried brown blooms

steeped in scent still

tangled in the living flesh

their leaves caught between my fingers

I dropped them onto the soil below

my feet a living earth

and considered them for a time

no more than this body

the day before

I forgot to tell you

a faded rose

from the garden

sitting atop my bookshelf

pressed closely in between spines

fell to the ground

like love

in a moment

of unstable equilibrium

that would otherwise have been still

there

 

I spent the next hour peeling its leathery petals

decomposing the rose’s unassuming growth

the outer layers a pale pink

closer to the core

turning browner and browner

like a rotting fruit

 

I tried to wrest free another layer of skin

not knowing what’s inside and what’s outside

when black spindly seeds burst forth

out of the bud

like so many dark tadpoles

a community of becoming

collecting on the blanket spread across my knees

I wondered about emergence and emergency

I thought about viruses and the undead

I thought about my sickness and my unliving

 

I feel murkiest now

not where the light

on my surface

has illuminated

stained glass in shades of amber and grey

but in the places that strain for darkness

a small moth rests inside my mouth

its wings tickling my canines sometimes

I let it flutter

in its humid cage

or pin it

an entomology assignment

wriggling

in the rising tide of my saliva

to underside of my tongue

before I chew and swallow

 

I haven’t bled in months and now it all comes

my body’s borders blurring and

staining my clothes

insides outing themselves

I feel uncontrolled for the first time in a long time

know what it means to release

 

I run through floodwaters

shed my shoes and feel the droplets slide down my legs

watch the rain form waterfalls at the edge of the sidewalk

we keep going through those undead ends

these new rivers rush past the traffic lights

tangle up in each other

no stopping

the current

not now

it’s not past

not for this

end

 

when I get home, I slather blue goop on the clothes

dip my hands into water

watch all signs of red disappear in sloshing bubbles

a part of and from my body gone

 

like it never happened at all

like none of it did