after Salvador Dalí
A therapist once told me you’re basically just existing. That was after
the break-up but before I cried, sliding down the wall over-easy
onto the floor. I will not cry at the gym, I said today. I will not cry
at the gym but then images of the earth on fire and my organs thaw.
Tell me what I’m supposed to do with this fork. These hands.
You know how you can spend decades trying to escape from a black
hole because every mile traveled is replaced by three more?
When I was a child, my shadow went for a swim in the night sky,
doggy paddled with Canis Major, tightened Orion’s belt.
I feel her absence when I walk in the sun, stretching my arm to see
if she’s returned. To others, it looks like I’m reaching for something.
I used to say I love you to the moon, but not back—if I made it
all the way to the moon, I’d just stay. So I get it. But maybe
in an alternate universe, things worked out between us. Right now,
it is morning, and the sun’s yolk suspends from the sky as if by string.
I am making her vegan eggs. We’re eating them off the table
with our fingers, laughing until we cry about how messy life can be.
