by Shannon Baker
the water over a
enough, that’s how it went down.
just slipping, eyepairs away after
a hold, a sort of handshake, supposed
simple, restless, the slap-up sound of
stray neurons grope-grabbing, all the
air that got in the way.
i remember him saying, “i believed you knew
and understood the knowing.”
i remember my anger, disgusting, i thought
his gift of approval. letting me know that
i did in fact
know, was reallytruly
human after all.
caught in the hand of a mosstree, mostly
mudbones and mouthsalt,
i wrung my mind clean of
other people’s thunder. let
them nest noisily into
dirt. electricity seeds
in every creature humming hot, the brainburn
of aging, the slowing conversation
of one’s cells. it was clear
a single life should be sufficient.
the tree surely thought so.
i would not argue.
some ants crawled over my arm.