(the waves)
(pg 138)

- it ticks the small notches and levers of my brain, it brushes at the spindly threads of memory. Corporeal memory. Somatic torpid memory. Now my stomach feels wavey.

I want to see whale's tails arching out of the sea. I want to have infinite time to read and write. I want to undo the damage of my past. To solder the frayed edges of my nerves. Drink milk again.

Bring me home and spoonfeed me a nourishing bowl of broth, cover me and let me sleep in front of the fire with the window open. Collect fireflies in jars and put them next to my pillow.

Become a bumblebee ghost streaming through the leaves. Forest doormouse. Monastic. Anchorite, worshiping at the basilica of greenwood and underbrush. Curved into the crook of a bristlecone pine. Small and stony. Spiney hard shell. Or, an impish little seal peeking its head up through ice floes.