a lawn chair in gaithersburg
you look out the window and your father’s station wagon from your childhood is sinking into the yard. your father never owned a station wagon. we’re taking on water. in chemistry dissociation means splitting something into smaller things. in psychiatry it means the same thing. i can break it down. i can break down. a wound so deep it’s unconscious. you have to dissociate for it to hurt. you know the part in the natural catastrophe movies where all the birds fly away right before it happens. the scene where all the scientists just stand there staring at computer screens filled with static because they warned everyone. in the movies someone saw it coming. you were doing chest compressions and i coughed up muddy water. i’m sorry i skipped to the end again. sorry to ruin the suspense. sorry i ruined scene in the garage & the pianos you’d planned on. you deserved pianos. a brick on the sustain. there are only violins in the credits. at least you get credit. at least you get something. i get motion sick from the ellipses. my heart. the worse for wear. i keep doing things people do when they get sick. i call the part since you’ve been gone the afterlife. a silent car ride that lasts forever. you never stop to get gas. you only remember stopping to get gas. i know why people get high and drive. it’s called secondary growth. a second wind. i have stared death in the face. which is to say that i have looked in mirrors. i have stolen reflections out of glossy windows and elevator chrome. you were a field scythe propped against the coat rack by the door and i was a kevin kostner film. a shattered mandala. sifting through the mistakes for the firmament. push has always been shove. okay. turn the music up and snap off the knob. have you ever seen a tree contort toward the light. have you seen me.