All of it strung, like popcorn through
a hard, silver needle. Emulsion on acetate, backlit,
in reverse. Inverse purple sycamore cardiovascular
branches, like the veins that carry breath. All that is there
isn’t. Not really. All that isn’t really there hanging
between the pads of my fingers. Careful, don’t touch!
Not yet. Lay it out, let it curl. Remember the orange gray,
gray orange. Let it sit there and don’t touch. It has to dry,
it has to come to a boil, simmer until it thickens.
You have to hang it from a clothesline and pin its feathery wings
to the styrofoam so it sits straight. It might be hot!
You don’t want the styrofoam to melt, so better yet
don’t touch it at all. Leave it in an editor’s inbox instead,
just to make sure it’s never read. You don’t want to get
fingerprints all over it, do you? Talk to it a little, but remember
to pitch your voice up. Everything sounds lower
in the womb, and you want it to recognize your voice, right?
Don’t worry about the blood, it has its own, and it’s pulsing
in the negative. If you listen close enough, maybe you’ll hear
its antiheartbeat. The eyes, not the brain, will develop first,
that way it knows how to render you in its gaze.
I bet if I touched it to my tongue, it would be salty, like two
beady eyes glistening in the backlight. The body produces so much salt;
it bleeds in technicolor and it weeps. Never sweet.
I’d let you touch it, but it has to scab up,
send platelets to crust the open wound. You closed the shutter,
therefore making it bleed. The least you can do is fire it,
put it in the kiln so it can find its shape, and as it hardens
you better pray that it doesn’t bleed out, leaving you nothing
but empty signifiers and tortoise shells.
