sick, my head is a balloon,
I am that quiescent caterpillar in the chrysalis, hanging from the shivering branch. From my bedroom I hear the kettle sing from the kitchen. There is a patter of bare feet in the kitchen, soon echoing down the hallway. You bring me hot honey lemon water. Sweet, like needles on my throat (scorched; sunburnt; brittle; whistling), but soon relief (honey, I taste the pollen from the spring in this night hanging still in the dead of winter).
Pain is a terrible thing. It tells you that you will soon die. I tell my brain it is ok, I will be fine, and try to shift my focus. The loss of ones voice is a loss of one’s self. Reduced to a physical string of suggestions drunkenly flung from limbs and from mouthed words made by lips attached to an empty mouth.
You run a finger through my hair. Despite the pain is an overwhelming calm; an analgesic that feels like mercury coursing through my veins and into my muscles. The circulatory system is no longer a current in an ocean but the trail of a fish in a lake slowly freezing in the first few weeks of real winter, like swimming through melted honey. I too melt into this bed and under these covers and into you.
The images on the television are bright, they change so quickly to give the illusion of movement. And like those images I am thinking of the album that makes up the here and now, and what colors are so pronounced, which people are so real, and all the light shining pallidly on the wall, as to give the illusion of movement. Because here I am stuck in time. I am in the image that will be framed and tacked to your wall some years from now.
You whisper something out loud (it tosses me back into the river of time passing, whose currents I get to escape every once in a while and I scamper upon the muddy earth for a moment. The dark trees tower overhead and I hear singing somewhere far off in the distance in the forest away from the river but I am always thrown back into the water).
I think of all those whispers that stay inside your head and how beautiful it would be to write all of your words down on the sidewalk on some distant planet as a religious text to some far off god that I got to meet one summer many years ago.
Your whisper asked how I’m feeling. I am overwhelmed by the thoughts and feelings that inhabit the hot fever head, the ones that are prefaced by the idea that this could be the end. I say I am okay. My words are dranw ouuuuutu and fumlbe in the air.
When I was young I imagined how my body could be operated by an assemblage of bees inside of me. They pulled levers and talked and there were alarms and lunches and they all had homes. Some lived in my heart and some lived in my head. I can hear their buzzing whenever I see you. I can see them in my skin point their stingers upwards when you touch me. And I wonder if there are bees inside of you, too, for whenever you speak the sweetest honey comes out.
And in this moment that could be my last, do you remember when we painted our skin? What the hell were we, anyways?
We are those trees in autumn, living to leave pieces of ourselves behind.
We are those trees in spring, growing fresh colors in a honey sunrise.
No, there is no winter