4/29

current

at night i find the river
that threads each day into the next.
wash my needle in the sink
& sew a patch into my skin
to stop the light from 
leaking out. i tell my friend
across the table, "i wouldn't mind
living forever if i could do it
without my body." scratching tallies
on the inside of a trampoline.
spitting a lily out in the sink
& crushing it into the trash can
so no one can see. i light candles
as if they might destroy the world.
breathe handfuls of rust. 
in the current, boats of ghost travelers
try to decide where & when 
to get off. some unborn.
some born so long ago they are
unsure where they could haunt
if they wanted to. i bought 
a necklace of fake pearls
& i wear it like a soul. searching
for what it could mean to take
the water & do whatever it asks.
bathing like only muses do.
there is a painting of me
in a museum, i am sure of it.
a me from baskets of moons ago.
biting an apple to find it
rotten & seeping with dead leaves.
consider what i would need
to go up stream. a speaker 
beneath my bed plays dream sounds:
crickets & cat birds & bells.
i do not tell anyone this is 
where i go when the hall light
is put to rest. kneeling
& dipping in & out of a cure.
telling myself softly
not to fall in. 

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