This is personal

She was myopic.
When I showed her
Monet,
she saw spots.

I can’t feel my arms, sometimes,
when I wake up; I can’t feel anything
but sunlight and buzzing –
my head is a hive of hornets,
constrained and restless; but
patient:
waiting for a child with a bat
and bad humor
to release the militia.

We will all flail wildly.
We will all fail wildly,
dramatically, emphatically;

and you will feel vibrations in all the wrong places
leaving nociceptors susceptible,
open to the sting,
the realization: you are “mind.”

Where do you go when your body is gone?

I planted you in the soil and watched you grow.
My hands were not my hands
but they pulled you from the earth
as a flower is plucked
and de-petaled.

And then I wake up.
I can’t feel my arms,
sometimes –
I can’t feel anything
but sunlight
and buzzing.

01.26.2010