Dirty

Dirty  

Somehow, it's never been lost. Something remains inside, 

perhaps like the crust that builds on kitchen counters or under kneecaps-

what I’ve lost and what I’ve thrown away; these are the same things. 

She taught me to eat with a spoon and yet I learned to twist noodles onto a fork by myself, never wanted me to keep eating, yet even when she uncut her hold onto a body-

my body-

began to listen to her voice like I never had when it came from her throat. 

If I could lose her, the sound of her-

the crush of tin foil on teeth, the sound! 

Then maybe I will find that extent of me that lives in the crust of all things. 

Maybe if I let my fingers smudge with ink regardless of the paint, or let simple metal stain my skin green-

a crop circle reminding me what touches my hands will be felt in my body.

Maybe if i let my head stop shaking like a muscle or cracking open like a fault line, 

if I stop sprinkling weed killer onto the sidewalk in front of my weed killed house.

Maybe if I sunk myself into salt water and smelled with my eyes and blew with my nose instead of sucking mucus back into my lungs-

instead of coughing, instead of holding noodles on a fork in front of my mouth and lurching forward forever-

maybe if I began realizing and realizing and realizing-

I will find the limit of me living between the particles.