March 25th, 2014

my eyelashes scrape against my glasses and make the smallest
squeak this is heavy this feeling of floating I a m c o m i n g u
n d on e it isn't bad, everything is here, but as each part unhinges
it drifts apart and moves in the dark room. We, my parts and I, are
here together yet separate in this womb. By morning we will have
reconvened, but tonight my fingers bob against the ceiling reading
the brail of spackle and my legs twist like sea grass in the slow wind
of this spinning room. My hair grows and grows until it is like if
you turned a willow upsidedown and my lips, though they stay on my
face, are very large and press against the glass pane. The only parts
of me that seem not to be involved are on left toe and a knee cap.
Everything else has succumbed to this ride, this swim, this submersion.
The water is the temperature of the air and it sounds like very
slow music I heard when I was a girl in a land I no longer remember.