How can it just collapse in on itself? like it was some ultimate fate? like we should have seen it fucking coming? The food chain is never not hungry, but will spare all the crying babes, predeveloped bodies keeping nightmares alive and well, full of vitamin D.
A spoonful of the sun will sink in your bathtub, but it won’t sink fast.
A spoonful of the sun will taste remarkably familiar.
I am not able and willing and ready for this. I am sized into a lemon where my body follows natural law, is wrapped perfectly between the fruit and rind so when fully extended my fingers meet my toes and suddenly I am another barrier between the fruit and rest of it all. I am playfully drenched in yellow juice that, sort of arbitrarily, compliments my body’s natural pH level.
I’m not sure how this all happened.
Today I was walking home from work and stopped to listen to strangers scream at each other through the wall. A mother and her son stood, what I imagined sort of aggressively leaned into one another, somewhere in her room on the second floor. Their motions were exhausted, probably because they’ve had this same argument enough that it’s almost boring, or maybe because it’s Sunday night. The shade was down and the TV was on.
The son was screaming, something about- “HOW FUCKING DARE YOU-” smoking weed in the house, about how all his friends are gone, he wasn’t good enough to get out, something about community college- “BULLSHIT-“ and his job that only further- “GET OUT OF MY ROOM-” emphasizes the image of himself as purely- “WHAT ELSE DO I HAVE? WHAT ELSE DO I FUCKING HAVE?-” useless.
Their cat sat in the window, looked out at me, probably past me, stretched lackadaisically as the son began to cry, caught off guard by his sudden sort of confession because saying it out loud made it that much heavier in his hands. Like he suddenly realized he was lost in some crescendo, that his motions are wasted, that there really is nothing but fucking empty space
…. and marijuana.
I stood on the sidewalk, contemplated sitting on the curb but didn’t, and projected onto the son, imagining him as some beautiful time-thing.
The fantasy kinda goes like this:
He comes over and announces to me and no one in particular that the plastic bag he’s holding contains his brain, all his thoughts, and so he has to carry it around with him wherever he goes or else he just kind of sits in his environment like a snake who’s just eaten too many mice and can’t move, lies there listlessly. He’s standing on the porch with his plastic bag and drink things. We go inside, maybe hang out with my friends, maybe just go straight to my room to be alone but really to avoid having to explain the brain bag to anyone else. He opens the window without even asking. He sits on the floor, likes the floor, tells me about this one time when he “was eight, maybe nine, or maybe even eleven, I don’t know” when his dad was working nights at a restaurant in Nyack and his younger sister and brother were asleep. The memory materializes in the middle of his walk downstairs, not remembering what prompted him out of bed. He reaches the bottom and walks through the dining room into the kitchen, which hadn’t been painted yet, was covered in a truly awful floral wallpaper that might have been okay at one point, but was now just sort of a sour milk color with a deflated green trim. There’s a vague sense that he is sucking his thumb, as he generally did when a babe, as he moves into the kitchen to find his mother huddled on the ground, haloed in glass and blood, to the left of the refrigerator and under the phone that hung on the wall. She is crying, screaming, “I DIDN’T MEAN TO. I DIDN’T MEAN TO.” She looks at him like she loves him more than anything she has ever seen, that he is beautiful and wildly wonderful, but it doesn’t matter. She tells him she is trying to kill herself. He doesn’t remember anything after that, came to on the floor of the kitchen in some smaller space between a cabinet and the wall where he would trap his little brother, tickle him until he almost threw up, and actually did once, when he was eight, maybe nine, maybe eleven.
He sits on the floor and is a mirror of my own childhood, localized in the kitchen.
Once I lied on the rug by the sink and can’t remember why I was lying there or why I decided to keep the memory. I lied on the rug for hours, for maybe ten minutes. Everyone was in the living room and my mother didn’t actually get around to killing herself.
The son sits on my floor, teases the carpet without even meaning to.
“Hey, I know this is the first time we’ve ever looked at each other, but I kinda remember this time when you looked at me in that way that… in that way that you didn’t even mean to in the moment, but it just sort of happened, and only realized you did after moving across a lawn and back into some house, or maybe not even until the next day when you recalled the previous night’s events and remembered the look but couldn’t discern whether or not you made it up or if maybe it was actually something that, unlike everything else that was said or done that night, we’d both separately remember, and that it’d take up a little more space in each of our bodies.”
We’re still on the floor when I realize that I’m looking at him in a way, again, like I sort of open my eyes wider without actually moving, reshaping them so they resemble almonds, even though the color doesn’t match. I sort of jam my eyes forward to a breaking point, but it doesn’t hurt, even feels natural in terms of what I’m saying.
/it’s like seeing someone and feeling suddenly even if you’ve already known or if you’ve never known that everything for that second-might-as-well-be-the-knowable-universe’s-entire-existence IS and you’re ok with that it doesn’t make you nervous anxious isn’t suffocating on the contrary lulls you into your own body where it is safe and warm/
We spend the next few hours comparing and contrasting but mostly comparing and discovering common interests. We get really high on the marijuana he told his mom he doesn’t smoke in the house but sometimes does whenever his head feels particularly humid.
I read him my favorite poem out loud while we are particularly stoned and drunk and have somehow defied gravity and slithered from the floor into my bed. I’m lying on my back, fully clothed, and realize I’m not wearing underwear. The son takes his gooey, pink brain from out of the plastic bag and, in an amazing feat, unhinges his top jaw and swallows it whole.
“when God created love he didn’t help most”
The son starts to burry his head into my stomach, rubs his face across my dress that he slowly climbs up and eventually takes off. I don’t think we are going to make it through this moment: he might devour me completely and totally, he might die of starvation before making it into me, that neither of us could possibly survive the other.
A spoonful of the son tastes remarkably familiar.
Pitched into my stomach, the son is the most stoned, beautiful creature I have maybe ever seen, despite telling myself I’ve already been in love, twice. He is red and he is nutritious, and my body asks that I thank him; he is ripe, vibrant, the fruit and vegetables of the world.
He is everything he’s ever been, compressed into the present; he is illuminated. He is the smallest child, clinging to his mother’s dress, crying after not getting his snack, or being particularly tired, or scared by what turns out to be a harmless dog. He clings to my dress and wants to climb back into the warmth and safeness of my womb and rest for a while before having to truly face the hunger, the exhaustion, the harmless dog
and at the same time
a full grown man spewing desire and overcome by a throbbing erection that could only be satisfied by fucking the woman in front of him. It is intimate and indifferent. He wants the fullness of ME but is so overcome with desire that it doesn’t matter who I am, just whether or not I’ll fuck him. In that sense it is honest, wonderfully sexual, and we both cum.
I continue the fantasy by imagining that post-orgasm I close my eyes and crush his skull so that all his beautiful always thoughts pour out, soak my mattress, bleed into me- so that everything trapped in his head is free and viscous, smell of crushed strawber-
-suddenly, and without reason, I remember I’m still just standing on the sidewalk outside of some house after a ten hour work day, that there’s beer waiting for me two houses down, and so continue to walk home.
The son will never know and the mother will continue to cry.