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Saturday, April 1, 2017

Scan With Darksome Devouring Eyes My Bruised Bones

On the phone last night, together we write I had no business
grieving, for it was not my loss. It’s true, to whatever this refers—
grief not driven by venture nor its capital. I am lucky this way,
only having lost myself. As a girl my grammar round and godless,
the world bright awake when nothing much was done, only my usage
sharpened, words like No an impossible right angle—not impossible
for its math but its application, wedged into a body of unpredictable
degrees. As when every year since infancy, I fall into a fever so
severe the notion of death or urgency cannot enter—it is only the fever
that wants so much to be body, that I want to push out if it could
just have dimensions beyond my greenbloat vision. As when every
year, the fever challenges what the body can be—a hot box, a chasm
trapping lost decades of smoke, a container in a car incubating leftovers.
It can go on a long time, this business of bodies.
It’s possible I have become the ecosystem that awaits the arrival of
its people, they who come eager to sit down within it, consuming
every last rock of country. How I want them all, how I want to become
the terrible wake in being here. In sleep I know paradise to be mammalian, 
like the fever that comes without belief in its housing, that must
enter something, to travel in the conduit of breath always away
from former aching limbs. I love others with the same acuity, wear
them until I can poke my arms through with overuse. Isn’t it only natural
these devotional materials dissolve? We have no business with fantasies, why it is
we continue the reel over and over, needing future designs. The fever
I know now is not my own, not something I could mother or claim
proof of inheritance, but something I desperately want
as my curse, as if possession ever moves in both directions. When
it leaves, it finds another root—like grief, like language. We belong
to different disciplines. I woke inside a body. I make use of this loss.

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