river and raft

Every night I crawl in like its a secret page turning

Every day I dream of being under the covers. It's warm quiet pink soft empty of need- it asks nothing of me but to remain horizontal, it is very dark, non verbal.

How did this manic life end up in this slow thick dream river?

It's collecting debris alongside the tree roots and I am spotting lost rings, favorite pens, used silverware, battered linens woven in the mossy roots, crusted to the massive trunk.

Navigating this part of the river life is like trying to stay on top of a beach ball pushed underwater.

I am being tossed off as it pops up and flies away. I swim against the wind to get at it again. 

All my muscles are burning and my fishnets are collecting pebbles and doll furniture in the saggy feet.

I am trying to catch my breath in putty water land. Mist clings to my eyelashes and fly away hairs, each drop is grey with an ice cube world waiting

my limbs hang like poured cement into a girl shaped body cast. Each wrist, each ankle have baby floaties squeezed onto them. They are electric orange and the white flesh bulges out like raw dough.

But this will prevent the body from dying. This side affect is very normal. 

This is how it feels now. The body bread rising. Injected with blood thickeners like cornstarch water blood pushing against the skin, sculpted by the ripples, dented by the domestic debris.

This is the shape you have to exist in, a hundred barn animal sounds ring out as the arrow swirls around, the popcorn vacuum has condensed and moves like a space helmet down the river.

Every morning I wake up, out of the pages folded softly over my shipwrecked body, step out of my bed and into this cluttered river.

choking in the water, band-aides flapping open like  mini flags, audible breathing and treading water.

An all day episode of trying.

Every night  I escape to the mirage. Soft, dark, quiet, non verbal, a page slowly turning me in.