SWALLOWING THE SUN
You fed me stillness and I ate it from your palm
My mother cried when my knuckles came in, I was too young to notice that kind of thing. Bodies changing were still as distant to me as shaky fawn knees seem long before the spring. As flu season and uncongested sinuses. These are the hands that have done terrible things, that have trembled and torn out hair straight from the scalp. These hands have shred their baby-fat and gripped hard like newborn reflexes around thumbs. The yard is overrun with poppies and we are disregarding them like weeds. Perennial beings. I am swallowing the sun; sweat pooling onto the pavement like chlorine footsteps. You fed me stillness and I ate it from your palm. Let me prepare your dinner, let me clean up after; this is all I can offer. Your shallow irises, I was afraid to dip in my toes. Unnervingly blue, what I really meant was clear. Reflective like mirrors. I could see my own, staring back with something terrible like love. Like something I had never let myself even dream of.
The spiders were crawling out of my mouth and I could feel each of the eight legs tickling my tongue. I could even count them, with some practice. Psychosis instills patience. Learn how to wait it out, how to let the bugs inch over limbs without a wince; these are the ailments I’ve come to live with. Sticks and mud and cigarette stubs. Two mourning doves are building their nest. I’m scared I’ll boil the eggs. I don’t want to. I can’t help it. Next month my friends will be framing diplomas, I’ll watch through my screen. Things like that never came easy to me. A dull blade is worse than a sharp one, or at least that’s what my father believes. We both know why he gives these warnings. In padded rooms, I meet little capsules and study my socks (apparently I can’t be trusted with shoes). They confiscated my knitting last. I told the doctors that I wouldn't hang myself with mohair but no one laughed. It’s all primary here, colours and care. A few belongings have been sanctioned; I keep that swan in it’s envelope and peek at the writing between sessions. Are you proud of me? You don’t have to be, I know I’ve lost my credibility. The sandwiches are bland and I chew but don’t swallow; we’re allowed supervised smoke breaks and I bring your tobacco. Licking the paper, it gives me something to do. These hands have held bandages in showers that sting. These hands have eagerly pulled at your drawstrings. Terrible things.
