“How I Prepare Myself to be Loved by the Tulip Breeder” by Deborah Wood
First I wake up and try not to see him, pretend to be alone. I keep hearing body aware, body aware and rub the writing callous on my fingertip. There are over one hundred access points for bathing, laundering, and praying, meridians on the river. Mama. There are other people. Yet still, we will meet at eight o’clock, somewhere French. There are other people. Yet still, I am an internal ocean, seismic activity, a Jesus corpse, a way of holding space. Daily, I discover gradualness, a way of shaping space. Today, if you become frightened….
Daily, unshowered, we brunch at three. Then I press my fingertips to the ground, knees, chin, chest, and with each repetition become thankful that there are no answers. Press the top of my feet into the earth and look for more questions. I consider counting every second for the rest of the day and then change my mind. I finished the dictionary yesterday and will read the last page at noon again today. I hope to be possessed by five. I still find cholera sexy. I touch my skull five times with a stick and allow my soul to leave my body. Some days I believe the world is flat, wish the day was full of only useless things, remember I am only a number, that flowers fall out of fashion. Practice that overlapping stitch, and lower my eyes to recall how you must have felt, blink when I come too close to the answers. Modify a noun. Remember, there are other people. Create a vacancy. Find another start. Begin again.
Copyright © 2010, Deborah Wood
