What you need to understand
When I told you I’m going blind and my father is dying
My uterus is too tired for a baby and I’m scared
And you said you’re really life-ing huh
I threw you to the other side of the galaxy.
Can you feel it?
Floating, cold, irretrievable.
What you need to understand is that part of you is really out there
Now, beyond the Mars rover and far-flung promises
Because we are all connected.
I’ll assuage my guilt with oily spaghetti and fill my living
Room with geodes, their cracks showcasing glittering crystalline cities.
I’ll sit between them, try to learn how they do it
Because right now my cracks only show hair and chickens,
Leaves and dust, mites feeding on scabs.
What you need to understand is when you changed
The subject, told me you just bought a house and it’s wild
I was envious of your heavy brown boxes, the way you thought
You could pull off that nose ring, the thrill of being
A blushing bride. The whites of your eyes smooth
And shiny as soft-boiled eggs.
What you need to understand is a panther literally walked through the room
While we spoke. A stone-cold killer. I was a deer and he was my head
Light. You didn’t notice because I’d chucked you out toward Pluto.
But because we’re all connected I feel
It too. The floating, the coldness.
Our tiny blue planet, that ball of jazz and melancholy, that single husky’s eye
So far away I could cover it with my thumb, I could mistake it
For a floater, I could say maybe it’s not even a real planet
Maybe we’re just imagining it--oasis full of water, palm trees, the center
Veined with dark dinosaur blood, even an island
Where people greet you with garlands of flowers as if you were a prom date
A winning athlete, a wedding cake, a grave.
Mind you, these are people that don’t even know you.
You could be snapping your gum or breathing a tuna fish sandwich.
It sounds too good to be true but then again the doctor had a tiny heart
Painted on each of her nails and I remembered
It was almost Valentine’s. She pointed to the screen
Where the tissue was decayed, saying it was funny that I couldn’t see straight
Ahead because most people with my condition can’t
See on the periphery. I thought
Of course I can’t see what’s right in front of me.
Story of my life.
But I could see she had golden retrievers embroidered on her ballet flats
Pink lip gloss, hair on the back her head that needed a comb.
I could see what middle-aged people saw when I was young and offering
My expert opinion with gleaming, vanilla-oiled skin.
But because we’re all connected I could feel love at my fingertips, hairy beasts
Curled at my feet, the back of my head messed up.
I could feel a part of myself saying stupid things without meaning to, wanting to change
The world. Wanting to greet everyone with flowers
But trafficking mostly in hair and chickens, combustible
Dry foliage and hungry little bugs.
You can’t just reach out and brush a relative
Stranger’s hair with your fingers but you can say
I like your shoes and watch them smile.
Working in the church
The woman has curled eyelashes and large hands.
The woman is aghast, your flowers are dead
I say I know I’ve been meaning to toss them
I say I like dryness and bones, slow agonizing endings
The woman hands me receipts
Goes back to spraying arrangements with fixative
We choke on fumes as she decorates the alter
It’s Easter and the dead are rising like fresh baked bread
Dawn rabbits skitter about the lawn
I was never great at math but here I am tallying receipts
In my next life I’ll skitter about, furred and oversexed
I’ll stretch like yeast, bacterial, give bouquets of bones
I’ll say quick put these in water
I’ll laugh and the laughter will be itchy, infectious
In this life the big hand woman smiles when I cross myself, not knowing how
I whisper in the name of the Father, the Mother, the Son and Lucifer
At home I fire a loaf of dirt and blood, whisk gravy of pine sap, ash
Leave the front door open for wolves
I was never great at math but even a good son is always part-bad
And flowers are only beautiful because they die--and then they stay dead.
Diana K. Malek lives in rural CT. A former professional dancer and odd job holder, she is currently a candidate at the C.G. Jung Institute of New England. Her poems have appeared recently or are forthcoming in The Dodge, Pangyrus, and Cimarron Review.