I’m thinking gorgeous. I’m thinking vivid backdrop—
the bright red bloody scene where I collapse into a pile
of baby blanket scraps that flutter down over the peach trees,
splattered in splotches of substance and hive. I’m thinking
there is no way I can go on
now that I know the truth, but then I’m thinking that calling it the truth is a bit of a stretch. Roasted turkey for dinner, darling! Mashed potatoes! Corn casserole! My unjoined flesh, skinned while soft,
fresh out of the oven—we’ll split me open, position me wherever you want, just say the word! Green beans!
I’m thinking
the music isn’t quite right, and the sound is almost perfect, but
I think there needs to be just a little bit more screaming, so we can really sell it, so we can get her on tape and unwind the footage
into nesting material. I’m thinking the truth isn’t found in the truth,
but maybe in each clandestine attempt I make to overwrite the memory,
every single time my mind has gone Cannonball! and jumped into the deep end of the pool
hoping to hit itself euthanized—
each time the pain has shucked itself off
because of love’s cold-stripping touch—
every single damn time I looked down between myself and saw
an inverted garden,
lungs surfacing to the exterior,
the Earth liquifying—
I’m thinking I don’t want to go home. I’m thinking pull me out of the tunnel
so I can see the vivid backdrop one last time
before I unbecome. I’m thinking about the end–
what happens when the music stops
and we all take an animatronic bow and retreat behind a thick
curtain—famously the color of blood—never to be seen again. I am beginning to think there is no way out. I don’t know what happens then—
I suppose I simply wake up
and exist within the truth. Or outside of it—or, perhaps,
fighting a three-headed dragon with a flamed sword,
crossing rivers of lava,
cutting through the thorns, fighting my way up to the truth.
I close my eyes and I rise up from
beneath the water, alive. I’m too aged to be edible–
molded-over.
Rewrite the memory.