IN MY THIRD YEAR OF BEING A ZOMBIE

i know something about hospitals.

dry eyes, tight throat. picking at my cuticles.

I have fear every time i wake up and see a missed call

or text message on my phone. 
“you have to come down on the first bus” “can you fly out there?” 
“Tell work it’s a family emergency” 
All the headaches.

I have body pains like boa constrictors

in my shoulders shifting and squeezing

all the muscles. I have been trying to notice, how my body defaults to tense.

do you know? how many times in a day

I roll my shoulders back, take a deep breath. I was not breathing before

this. I didn't used to be destroyed.

I walk around with my mind in hospitals.

knives that cut through tissue of infants. Removing bones. Little limp bodies on metal tables. Pale faces

look at you like you betrayed them. Too young to know it’s to save their lives. Once,

we spent days getting excited about going on an airplane

only to have her two year old body shake with fury, scream. 
“i’ve been tricked” 
because

the stale glow of the airport lights are too similar

to the hospital’s.

I can speak of

straps that hold the wrists of grown men. Panicking. blood boiling. and doctors who
“won’t give that junkie any post-op pain killers.” I walk in the room, look in his eyes.Gaze past the new stitches and

cotton mouth

to see someone with my flesh and my bones. It is only that his brain

failed him so gallantly. but his heart

still beats as lovingly as always.

I know long rides on the bus. And my face pressed on the cold glass. somber trips to

see people on the edge.

My phone rang today.

My granny.

curtains of blood rushing out of her face and

“her heart”

and

“failure”

and

I already start planning how to tell work it’s

“a family emergency”.

I consider, what it means to feel stress.
What do you believe a crisis is? 
What is enough to make you cry?

I have crippled myself, through hospitals.

I would never.

i can not.

i do.

I am.

i am so angry.

I am so angry.

I am so angry.

I AM NOT A BEAR

how earnestly

we sew. tight

stitches traversing up

where the spine would have been.

inside this skin it is

clotted, hot blood of some other animal.

how embarrassing to be caught

wearing another's fur.

despite the multitude of

dense layers of hair,

it all just feels so threadbare.

FREETRAPPER

they're born
strong head, narrow hipped
from dense black soil and
mineral deposits
hot silver, crusted
rock debris

reminiscent of thick pelts
red skies
morning dew
dark pools.
with a cracked pepper zeal
they come forth
a new
anew.

to form soft tendrils of
liberated
unfurling,
into
snaked roots

and wild depth,
of which we know no bounds.

memories of damage #1

there are, no lights
when my eyes open. Except
the hushed blue
from atop the garage door.

clotted/throbbing/shifted
indigo leaks onto bone and
I immediately notice the jagged pain of
a metal
can, cracked in half
between two vertebrae.
I am showered in it's thick liquid;
warm sugar dripping down my neck.

they left!
panicked, before I was
re-submerged by the darkness.
unconscious.
nothing but August night air hitting the train tracks and
coyote calls around me.
body pressed to concrete
bike left untamed.

I remember the view.
railings of the loading dock,
my feet above me,
backpack straps,
bicycle splayed sideways on
the narrow slope of grass,
night sky obscured by
tops of warehouses.

I cry out.
thick layers of skin lost
from my palms, my knees.
helmet digging into my chin
swollen.
a sense of loss
embarrassment
disgust.
where was I? Alone, and
betrayed by my own actions of which
i still can not remember
to this day.

you must stand, now. I said
to myself. Out loud and
gently.
my mind gaps
on how i lumbered to my bike
wheeled the damaged steed around the corner
stopped.
street lamps
and another coyote howl.
Someone was waiting for me there.
I collapsed. supported.
someone to hold my
body, tender like
bruised roses.

HOW I LOST MY WAY, OR: AN ODE TO NOODLE PETE

i track murmured words
and lines of sight.
watch you gaze to
the horizon,
the speaker,
the cold air, is
what finally makes you blink.

there is often comfort in
unknowing.
in feeling around in the dark. let
fingers do the work.
squeeze biceps,
rub necks,
the cashmere, is
what finally makes them rest.

(they had caught two foals,
two wild young stallions which
kicked and reared and bit and
struggled frantically to free themselves as
Birk and Ronia tried to tie each of them to a tree.)

It's too much in the mornings, you know?
so many hasty steps to take and
rosemary bushes to count. I'll
stop to pick up feathers,
bluster at the grey skies,
your gullied smile, is
what keeps one foot in front of the other.

I need a deep breath because i realize
the awkward growing pains of those
stretches,
pauses

of

time

 manifesting as inches of
space, between us.

very simple, two good hands

like desert, his hands of dry earth
and callouses. splintered
nails. Ocher and rust,
they match the colours of his neck.
Exposed to the winds and the suns of
many years
standing knee deep in
rubble
hot metal and
the tides.
Each night they shine silver with
residue from fish scales.
thickened by nylon ropes and salt
they've tied knots he
now sits at the kitchen table, idly
twisting into found pieces of string
and rubber bands.
Smelling of soot and fresh wounds
they
line metal, grow weary of the repetition of
a welder's work. Stretch
tense muscles and count
scars.
Firm on the wooden handle
smears of chalk and
sawdust line the cracks. He
comes home
to wash the babies and feed the dogs.
his hands
scabbed and blackened at the knuckles,
He touches their backs and
the children take comfort in their weight.
Warm to hold
an infant's head, and
his wife's smooth plait.
the dense click of fingernail against
tooth
he is thoughtful.
they hold so much weight, these hands
of carbon and sinew.
it is so
very heavy.
it is so
very simple, these
two good
hands.

YOUNG WOLF

I remember cradling your head
cooing; singing your family songs
in a voice not quite confident.
Those big purple/green mountains looking
all bruised and intimidating
deafening
in their volume. Static noise, which
over powered the dusty tapes we played
as we rush past in a little silver
volvo
taking a deep breath to go on to the next verse.

I remember a few chilled October nights
your slight nose painted,
brown for fox
black for tiger
other animals too, i suppose.
straw bale hair
bushing out, almost
as excited as you.

I remember hanging upside down on your couch
 hair, dusting the floor.
Wayne's world 1 and 2 and
two bowls of ice cream because
i wanted you to think i was cool.
Almost sheepishly I took the worn bills from your
mothers hand
shy
to put value on time spent together.

I remember your new sounds
voice low now, like aduki beans
and dry toast.
You wore a nice grey sweater
and I was unsure of the moment you grew taller than me
Did it creep past me?  or maybe it stood proud in front
of me and
I just looked through it. Glassy eyed and back facing the door.

I remember two years ago and shuffling
in the robust kitchen, socks collecting crumbs. I sneaked you downstairs
fed you liquor,
the agave burning our lips as we passed a bottle between
cousins.
Upstairs, pressing thick plastic buttons we left sad messages.
I was too drunk to remember the rest of the games played.
You were too sweet to remind me.

I remember last year. shallow messages sent
into late night grey clouds on black.
your sister and I
we drove
and drove
and drove, something we do. Across empty highways
Your nonsense, tomfoolery. you have such wit
and a golden heart. To aide and abet
navigation
high school
all things made
of salty blue skies
and wind whips.