Me—I’m the woman with medicine in her voice,
a forest bather mating like a corpse plant, melting into time,
floating toward a twelfth life like a trumpeter swan.
Is there – in your half-sized bed –
room for one more body
if we press close in the basement’s dark,
too scared to touch each other,
too lonely not to,
satisfied just to hear each other breathe?
Home still exists.
Where is homeland?
Look how wonderful your fear is, they goad.
Now step over the edge.
The snake was never an intruder in paradise
but a permanent resident.
Dinner was served already a memory:
Warm, heavy, familiar, bearable.
I see now that big brother fear//had the strength and muscle to pull out the atrophied qualities in adult life.
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My father, gravity, heard the rumor of my death,
Went into his room intending to hide
Pretending the shape of inception.