Here, the layers are bills on the table and I’m dragging my feet, wrapping my lips around handfuls of dry cereal.

After lunch, in another world where I probably had quiche, I cut a fistful of garden blossoms and drive them, in a car I own, to Jason’s small plot at the cemetery. Poor Jason, who, in a world somewhere, shot himself over the guilt of leaving me alone in my grief. Somewhere out there, he must have felt guilt.

In another place, far from there, I shot him—in the back, as he turned away. In a thousand somewheres, I’m in a different prison altogether.

Here, it’s when I remember that I haven’t yet brushed my teeth. Or checked the test. It’s negative, of course, because—here—it takes two.

I bet somewhere it doesn’t.

I bet somewhere I’m squinting at that strip, and cupping a hand over my mouth as tears of joy well up in my eyes. I can almost feel it, across all this distance. Or maybe that’s a memory from long ago. Maybe it hasn’t been that long. I bet somewhere it was only yesterday, and I’m about to live those four golden months—before it all splits again. Fragments of worlds flying out of my mouth with every scream, taking root like grafted roses, in the dark corners of space—growing there, into other possibilities. Other fragments split, again and again, like a zygote dividing—one that keeps going. One that doesn’t fail.

Maybe in one of those probability shards is a girl with hair the color of roses. Lips like lavender.

By the time I put the strip down, the afternoon sun will have dried the garden, and I can sit there and gently squeeze the snapdragons. Somewhere, we sing a duet—me and the flower.

Somewhere, before dinner, she sings as she sets the table, as I stir the sauce, Jason kissing me on the cheek as he loosens his tie.

Here, I skip dinner.

It’s probable that somewhere we cry diamonds. If anything and all things are possible, somewhere we cry daughters. Spread a towel over your lap, pour out your heart, and fill your life with children. Maybe ones with lavender hair and eyes like roses, and lips the tender green of aphids.

Here, tears change the flavor of the wine. Make it taste like the back of your throat. Like the fur on your teeth that you forgot to brush again.

I bet somewhere wine tastes like bleach, like rat poison, like drain cleaner.

There are places, I’m sure, where I never have to sleep. Where the sun is always out, and I can stay in the garden with my wildflower girl. Here, the wine pulls me under, but maybe to somewhere else. Somewhere close, where we intersect.

Grave Mother

GRAVE MOTHER