Many birders keep track of the birds we’ve seen on a “Life List,” with species, date and location.
Please, God, don’t give me anything to write about, I think, as a straggly-haired technician moves the wand around inside me.
Rust climbs happily along these old parked VWs, in no real hurry to decompose. Vines full of unnecessary flowers unfurl at their own damn leisure.
The cancer chews holes in my bones.
I lose pieces of my skull.
I saw the dream hens waking and stretching their wings, remembering the sky.
“If I fly far enough, the blue lights will engulf me and carry me up.”
Each excavation into a lost object revealed a hidden truth—a genuine regret. But it also threw into relief how lucky I have been, to have accumulated these regrets, and survived them.
I see that my own fears, like a misdirecting valve in the heart, can interfere with tenderness.
I wasn’t a cheater. A cheater was something more solid. I accepted the preferred reality as truth. Then, I forgot about it. I mean, genuinely forgot.
Like Kafka’s cockroaches, the Styrofoam head lives forever. Only we disintegrate to dust.