i. wake in the umbra. five things i can see. my soul, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood floor. the blue and green network of a dragonfly’s wing feeding my pulse. coffee mug—hosting a housewarming for the next brain-eating bacteria floating on the surface. drawing of myself (why did i draw my head so large?) thoughts disclosed in a bubble: TRUST THE PROCESS. google search: does korea do skull reduction surgeries?
ii. insides are TV static. grab the first face i see in the mirror; defrost the muscles. double cleanse. crack an egg. the yolk is so perfectly circular and orange, i suddenly think about the sun god Helios, and how the myths have survived in my kitchen. dishes in the sink quiver for attention—ceramic indignance; i eat my egg on a napkin. i beg for my volta, the dash that will spin me on my axis. diffuse me with soft light, drink the blood, gain a messiah.
iii. step, step out. kool-aid sky sears my retinas. feeling like a skinned knee, white spots perform a ritualistic dance in circles across my vision. at the park, there is a girl who mistakes me for her mother, though i am much too young. is it my crescent moon eyes or the weariness pressed into my face that confuses her? raw and uncertain like the first day of school. my heart makes tentative moves—a rare moth pinned to a collector’s wall. flutter and flap. and then! then, wash, rinse, repeat.
|Haley Marks is an English major at West Valley College from the Bay Area, California.|