on tuesday I receive the pink slip
notice that I can no longer
hunker–down
in my own body. Oh
well, it was a good run
had started hoarding
all sorts of pleasures
inside the skin tent
aloe vera water the clean
spring of freshly tuned strings
but who was I
kidding?
I knew the bulk and heft
of my joy
could not go unnoticed
Conscious Uncoupling
we are too pretty to be sad said the seahorses
when they returned to my shoulders from
peering over the ledge. I believe them.
Let them off the hook. Each. One
by one I unlatch the leashes laced through
their tails that keep them affixed to
my collarbone. I attempt
a face. you too, they say. too pretty. I feel utter,
unable. Suddenly, inward.
My neighbor walks by and bristles at the twelve
brassy hooks in my palm, my disconnection.
A barbell deep inside me clunks down. A ridicule
played in these weeds once. I think
I despise my neighbor. How can I show it
if I am not decorated with feeling.
Soon, a gauze descends
from the ceiling. I write my 12 former
seahorses. Ask them to return. Not for
ever. Just for a banquet. A quick cribbage
game. A discussion re my education. For my
edification. And have they seen the fear
forecast—the 100% chance
there are no other seahorses inside of me
The seahorses send responses
separately. The no’s
trickle in. I respond. Remember who
sent you off? Lugged you all the way to
the terminal? In the last hour
who coated you in a fresh spray of
paint? I drive to the super market while I await
replies. There, I positively swell. Free samples
on every aisle. Imitation crab and crackers and
hunks of bittersweet chocolate
and bread bits churn inside me
and my fellow shoppers
too inured in pleasure to care about what I lack
On aisle 9 the product
demonstrator’s seahorses
flumm when they see me, unattached.
He hands me two orange slices and stares.
It’s hard to breech a conversation without
the apparent strings. I’m behind
the wheel when the decisions
reach me. Declined. Again and adamant.
They are living their best lives without me
Therefore, it is best we don’t congregate
and exhume our old pattern. Ok,
I think rubbing my collarbone, the
once pierced skin which withers daily.
A few motorists show up
to the banquet anyhow. Truckers
who are hoping for a different kind
of party approach the profiterole tray
gingerly. I drag a chair to the window
as the chewing reaches a peak.
Outside, a few joggers, their feelings
balloon animals floating haphazardly
unimpeded from all the appendages
PAYWALL
