Incomprehensibilty has an enormous power over us in illness... --Virginia Woolf (On Being III)
I am certain of only one thing— I am a team a team of (n)one. In the lineage, all things pass through the kitchen, the mouth, origin to the tribe. Smudged surfaces claim every trace in the family cell— I moistened my tooth-brush, it came back with germs of madness— Verdant and wet, just this side of the doormat, pale footsteps are left at the ajar of an argument. One June afternoon, a feud erupted (in the frozen food section). It was hot as a dog’s nap. Then, a baby cried out like a road side bomb. I kept smiling at the cashier, thumbing bruise-less fruits, counting the dated canned goods. It took hostages, sealed windows, taped my mouth shut with sugar and pleasantries. I kid you not, it pawned off my jewelry, blood diamonds of /t/rust. I screamed out loud, but nobody heard. I need to mind what matters most— My sister needing a phone call, my husband an apology, the time to watch my son fumble a soccer ball down a muddy field. I am so clumsy to the people I love. I’ve slid my tongue on the sharp end of the conversation. I am the form built to last, but made with cheap labor and parts. (Do you wanna trade your troubles for mine, yours are manageable, and state-of-the-art.) The dog watches my son when I’m not home— (I mean, home, but not).
