surrender. I looked at them until they glowed and then

held

the feeling to my chest. I remember that, at least. Not

the feeling, but my chest. I think that if I ever wander

into

understanding — full and untethered understanding —

I’ll have to sit down for a couple of years. I’d rather

be forgetful

than know exactly what I’ve lost.

CLAIRVOYANCE

At eight years old I was psychic. Pressed fingers to

every living thing and gave it a future. I am my own

best historian because when I change the details it

goes unnoticed. At eight years old I was psychic / NO

/ I plucked leaves from the oak tree in my front yard

and hid them in my cheeks, just to see if this would

make the world shatter, and if it did, it waited many

years, examining my heels, before striking. The

moons between me and my formative experiences

race past my body like a searchlight that never lands

on anything living. At eight years old I was psychic /

NO / I killed the plant / NO / I ran away from home

on a plastic rowboat that my grandmother and I raced

down the creek behind our house. More proof that I’m

a historian — everyone in my poems has died. At

eight years old I was psychic / NO / I spit out the

leaves / NO / I planned my escape / NO / I bit into a

scarlet apple and left shards of bone buried in its flesh.

My dead grandmother scooped the apple and baby bits

into a plastic bag so it would fit the Tooth Fairy’s

requirements for payment. See? I was raised like this,

saving everything under my pillow. I was taught that

following the rules would get me what I wanted. At

eight years old I thought I was psychic / NO / I

fabricated an oak tree / NO / the creekbeds dried up /

NO / I sacrificed my body for a lie / NO / NO! / I just

wanted to be good. All along I just wanted to be good.

At eight years old I was psychic. I held my

grandmother’s arm and told her about the decades of

serendipity she had to look forward to. I gave her a

future longer than she was given. I gave her a future

that outlived my own and then I wrote it down.

NUMB RECOLLECTIONS

I was awake when they took my wisdom teeth.

The novocaine shots were enough to cry over but I

remember the sound more vividly than the hurt itself.

That terrible cracking of bone into confetti excavated

from my mouth like pieces of ancient pottery. Bloody

shards that the dentist allowed me to hold, cradle

gently in dubious hands. This former bite. This

shattered vase overflowing with history. Something

that could’ve lived forever if I’d just left it alone. But

I suppose that’s the point — I’d rather remove all

signs of growth than bargain with maybe. My