It took a jump from a pull up bar to swell my knee. It took a naked, post howl scramble down an Icelandic church hill to break my toe. Took drunken Christmas meal mandolin preparation to slice my finger, a lollypop craving to put me in front of the car, an accidental surrender to bruise my heart, rehearsal on an aerial pirate ship to crunch my fourth metatarsal…
The sun is generous on my back. The breeze is soft. Dogs barking, the toot of a car locking, the elastic sweep sweep of springtime birds. A chain jingles.
I smell the lavender and coconut oil I rubbed on my body. I smell the taste in my mouth. Bread and eggs with spinach. A friend made it for me.
The whispers of the outside world do not trouble me. Not these. It's the invisible ones I fear. The thoughts I cannot taste or smell.
My shoes are beautiful resting on this leopard print picnic sheet. A list forms in my mind and upsets my belly. Children yell and run in circles. This body is tired. I've been beating it my entire life. Pain is so reliable. I don't mind pain I can taste.
It's the escape from it. The shadow spells that conjure tension and invoke imaginary cages. This is the sensation I run away from. The sensation of running away. The antisensation. The terrifying suggestion of future pain.
I need to buy toilet paper. I need to water my plants. To grab laundry from the car, get an MA, buy eggs, find a lover, get pregnant, climb a tree, stretch, wash my hair, make money. The children are in a line. Their heads are down and they hold hands. Each has a partner. One is wearing a red skirt.
The ice-cream truck drives by. In spring there are lots of ice-cream trucks. They tink tank on my tequila brain, but I don't mind the inspired irritation. I can hear it. I'm happy it's real.
